


a wolf at the door

by foetend



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Anti-chantry rhetoric, Anxiety, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons Are Assholes, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Elven Glory, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fade Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Protagonist, Is it really a may/december relationship when one of you is an ancient god, Just a flirty inquisitor, Mages and Templars, Maker's Breath, May/December Relationship, Mentor/Protégé, POV Multiple, Playing with canon like a kid in a sandbox, Possessive Solas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Solas, Rite of Tranquility, Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic, Unreliable Memories, no love triangles, solas is a shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foetend/pseuds/foetend
Summary: They call her Mouse. Small and insignificant. When she is recruited to be an agent of a newly awoken and embittered Solas, she soon finds herself making a larger impact on Thedas than she could ever have imagined.





	1. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _firs that grow on their own_  
>  i made a coat for him  
> and when he was alone  
> it was part of his skin  
> "fir coat" widowspeak

At this point, a few scant months after waking up from his long sleep, Solas should have kept his expectations low. This severed world, dull and gray, should not have disappointed him as much as it did. He knew upon opening his eyes that he would be walking amongst the living dead. Ignorant creatures who polluted the land with their lesser kingdoms. They slaughtered, fucked, and shat all over the remains of what was once something of indescribable beauty.

It was his fault. All of it.

When he woke he laid there, prone and vulnerable, and wondered if he was dead. If this was the abyss that he had cursed the others to suffer. Had death come for him now, pulling him from the strange dreams that played through his sleeping mind?

No, Solas decided. No, he was not dead. Weak, yes. But not dead.

He allowed himself a small amount of pity, a tiny dormant thing that puttered around in his chest, and stretched his legs with a sigh.

He pulled himself up and went into this hollow world with eyes still crusted over from his long sleep. He rubbed them with the back of his fists and sought out the remains of his people.

What he found made him bitter and grind his teeth. It seems that they, the Elvhen, were hardly a footnote in this place. The elves he encountered now were mere echos of the race he once knew. Starved, beaten down things that were spat upon by humans. He looked down at the threadbare cloak he wore and at the dried spot where some toothless dirty human had spat chewed tobacco at him. It had laughed at his reaction, the human. It and its equally filthy comrades. They jeered, called him knife-ear. Rabbit. Other vulgar things that made the vein on his temple twitch in irritation.

Knife-ear.

_Rabbit_.

Solas chewed the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. It pooled around his teeth and painted his gums red.

The ones he found outside of cities weren't any better. Feral. Proudly marked as slaves to gods who would have them bent over and begging for scraps. Gods he spilled his own blood to free them from.

They spat at him, too. The Dalish. Nomads bound in furs and leathers who used ancient words that fell clumsily from their ignorant tongues. They brandished their weapons at him and called him a liar. They hissed and pushed him away from their derelict camps. Liar liar _liar_.

At this point, you'd think he be used to being called a liar but it still stung. It pricked at his fragile ego like the tip of a sewing needle. Each repeated insult sown deeper, picking at his old wounds with bloodied thread.

Solas adjusted the collar of his cloak, pulling it up to protect his neck from the cold wind. He walked in the darkness of the forest. Trees loomed over him, their spindly fingers reaching to the stars blindly. He stepped over mounds of moss, his toes sinking into the cool damp green with each step. The heat from the fires at the Dalish camp still licked at his hands and he felt empty to have left it so soon.

He had to lower his expectations.

Or at least learn how to phrase "everything you know and have based your entire culture on is a lie" in a way that didn't make people point sharp weapons at him.

But sometimes, to his own surprise, they listened. City elves were easier to convert, Solas learned. They were eager for any small scrap of elven culture that they feasted on the truth he laid before them. They were his first agents. His first attempts at reaching out into this new world. They brought information back to him in the form of news and rumors. Most of it worthless but the ones that weren't? He devoured those, stored them away for the long winter ahead.

He paused in the dark and woke up from his meandering thoughts. A lone, weak fire flickered ahead between the black trees. It nearly burned his eyes now accustomed to the lack of light. Tentatively, he moved closer and saw that by the fire was a small cloaked figure sitting on the ground.

Solas edged around the perimeter of the glowing campsite, keeping far enough that whoever was by the fire would not hear his footsteps. The fire, he soon noted, was not the traditional bonfire. No, the flames leapt from the hand of the seated figure. A mage, then, alone in the woods.

Learning what this world thought of mages made his throat tighten. Imprisoned. Corraled like beasts and locked away. Taught to fear the very thing that made them exceptional. Taught to fear spirits. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his chest.

Solas, steeling himself for another rejection, stepped into the light only enough to illuminate his body. His face remained in shadow, hidden by the night.

The figure stiffened, its own face hidden beneath the drawn up hood of its cloak. The pale hand holding the flame curled its fingers into a fist. It sputtered, the flame growing larger in warning.

Solas raised his hands, palms out with fingers splayed.

"Calm yourself, friend. I mean no harm."

The mage turned its head. Its face was mostly hidden in shadow but Solas could make out a small mouth pressed into a thin line. Solas tilted his shoulder, lowering it so the mage could see the staff that laid across his back.

"It seems we have something in common." His tone was light, carefully calculated to come across as friendly. With a calm gesture, he ignited a small flame in his own hand. It trembled in the cold and licked at his palm greedily. Solas kept one eye trained on the hand of the mage holding the fire. One swift move and _that_ flame would be aimed at him.

The seated mage took an audible inhale. Their flame dimmed, unsure. The two were silent for a moment, sizing each other up, as a gentle breeze shook the canopy of leaves above them.

Solas, moving with slow deliberate actions, nodded his head back toward the pack draped over his shoulder. "I have food. Bread. Dried meat." The mage tilted its head languidly, listening to him carefully. "I would not mind sharing."

The mage shifted, crossing its legs as it thought about his offer. Solas stepped closer, allowing his appearance to be fully revealed in the light of the mage's flame. He heard the mage take another loud breath as the point of his ears cast exaggerated shadows onto the trees. Solas chuckled lowly.

"If you do not mind the company of elves, that is."

The mage wriggled in a way that made Solas bite down another laugh. He knew nothing of this strange little figure but found it amusing how the reveal of his ears made them clearly uncomfortable.

The mage stilled. Flattening their palm, they sent the flame into the air in front of them. It hovered, bouncing gently in the wind. Their hand now free, the seated figure curled their fingers around the hood of their cloak and, sighing so softly Solas could barely discern it from the wind, pushed back the fabric to their shoulders.

Gently sloped but long ears peeking out from dirty, mousy brown hair greeted him alongside a pair of rounded, dark eyes. Hollow cheeks drawn tightly over a fine-boned feminine face. Young and starving. Pity rumbled in his throat.

"No," said a girlish voice weak from travel. "I do not mind the company of elves."

Solas felt the flutter of relief settle in his belly. No slave markings on her face. He smiled and pulled his pack from his shoulders. He dug around for a moment, fingers dancing over the items in his bag, then held out a packet of dried meat for her take.

*

They call her Mouse. A little thing scurrying beneath the feet of giants. Small voice overwhelmed by the chant of prophets and doomsayers. Her heart always pounding. The fear of being crushed by the waves of the ocean makes her tremble. She can't remember a time when fear wasn't inside of her. A non-vital organ sucking the life out of her. She drowned, sputtering for air even though she was surrounded by it, and felt herself carried away by the movement of the crowd marching out of Kirkwall.

She can't remember how she got to Ferelden, out of the Free Marches and away from the burning ruins of the Gallows. A boat, most likely. She remembers the smell of salt and the taste of stale hard tack that stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Ferelden is so green. Greener than Kirkwall, at least. And wet. And cold. She has never been this cold before in her life.

This man, the elf. He is unlike any elf she has ever seen before. Mouse envies him and she doesn't even know him. Tall, broad-shouldered. He is elegant in every movement he makes. He sits with a straight back, never slouching his shoulders to make him take up less room. His long legs bent at the knees, tucked beneath his thighs. His feet are wrapped like the Dalish but he is unmarked. He's friendlier than they are, she notes. The Dalish she met eyed her with suspicion. Rightfully so, she mused bitterly. The Dalish had enough problems without rogue apostates and the Templars that chased them nipping at their heels.

Mouse thinks of the smell of burning flesh. The clang of metal hitting the ground. Blood that filled the air and the crack of magic that followed. Her stomach rumbles.

She chews on the meat he gave her. Druffalo, she thinks. It has been so long since she had meat that even the gamey taste of druffalo makes her mouth water.

He watches her and her dancing flame. Watches her eat and swallow the tough meat with a gentle look in his eyes. She feels awkward, gangly, compared to his effortlessly regal air.

She clears her throat.

“Mouse.”

He lifts a single dark eyebrow.

She shifts in her seat and offers her hand. She hesitates for a moment, lowering it slightly as she remembered how grimy it must be.

“My name is Mouse.”

Solas opens his mouth as if to speak but stops and smiles at her again. She can't help but look at his lips, briefly, before chewing on her own lips as she looks away.

He takes her hand and envelops it in his own. His hand is large and warm; fingers wrap around her thin, strained tendons and she can barely breathe. He moves their entwined hands in a gentle upward shake. His pale eyes never leaving her face. She feels bare, exposed, under his unwavering gaze. 

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

 *

"Have you ever been in a circle, Solas?" 

The orb of fire sways low to the ground. The sky is still dark but growing lighter with each passing moment. Stars growing pale as the clouds shift from black to navy blue. Mouse is too excited by her guest to sleep. Solas, for what it's worth, seems equally enthusiastic and willing to forego sleep.

"No." He watches her shocked reaction with amusement. "Is that so strange?"

Mouse shakes her head in disbelief. "Never? But you're so-"

"Old?"

She blushes then and is suddenly grateful for the low light. He laughs, low with a soft snort at the end, and it makes her stomach clench.

"I only meant - it must have been difficult. To hide for so long." 

He shrugs and shifts to stretch his legs out in front of him. She watches him unfold from beneath her eyelashes. Her cheeks grow hotter.

"There are always ways to hide, even in plain sight. It has not been too strenuous to escape the Templar's notice." Solas pauses and examines the sky above them. "Especially now with the war."

The scent of blood and burnt flesh tickles her sinuses. Mouse shudders and clenches her hands into fists.

"Technically." She whispers to the trees. "We're all apostates now."

Solas hums in reply. He lowers himself back to rest on his elbows. "Does that bother you?"

Suddenly, she feels exhausted. Worn thin. The thought of sleep makes her head droop low against her chest.

Solas lays back fully and clasps his hands over his chest. "Sleep, da'len. We'll talk more in the morning."

Mouse curls into herself, tucking her bony knees under her chin. Sleep comes easy but settles fretfully in her belly. The Fade waits for her and it makes her shiver.

*

In the morning, part of her is surprised to see Solas still remains with her. She half expected to find herself alone again, perhaps missing her pack or some coin. The other part of her is thrilled in a way that makes her feel childish and dumb. She buries the feeling deep down and rubs her sleepy eyes with bent knuckles.

When he pulls out a small loaf of hardened bread it nearly takes what little manners she has left not to greedily snatch it from his hands. He breaks it in half and hands her the larger portion, the corners of his mouth lifting as he watches her nibble happily on the stale bread. Mouse very nearly purrs in contentment at the feeling of a full belly. She can't remember the last time she ate so carelessly.

"Mouse. Is that truly the name your parents gave you?"

She swallows a bite of bread but it sticks to her throat, making it difficult to talk. "It's what I've always been called."

Solas frowns and sets his portion of bread down on his lap. "Surely they did not -"

Mouse interrupts him quickly, her voice flat, "I don't remember my parents. I went into the circle as a child."

"I apologize, da'len. You must have been very young when you first manifested your gift."

She stiffens, clutching the remaining bread to her chest with tense fingers. Mouse pointedly does not look at the man beside her. She examines her worn shoes as if she has never seen them before in her life.

Solas remains still, waiting.

"Gift? In the circle, they taught us that magic..." She hesitates. Her tongue feels too big, too dry for her mouth. A voice, not her own, but of the teachers and Chantry sisters of the Circle. The templars who herded them around the Gallows like mindless sheep. The ones who chanted, carved into her, the fear that always trembles in her chest: "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken his gift and turned it against his children." 

"Do you believe in the Maker then, da'len?"

Mouse laughs, jolting Solas with the sharp, humorless sound that falls from her lips. She bites into the remaining bread and tears it with her teeth. She chews and swallows until it's gone. It sits in her belly like a rock.

"No. I do not."

She's confused him. She laughs again despite herself. He furrows his brow and runs a finger over the crust of the bread, spilling dry flakes on his breeches. 

"I may not believe in the Maker but they-" Mouse looks at him, nodding her head as she speaks. Solas nods in return, in an understanding of who _they_ are. "They _do_. And they frighten me. They hunt me like I am game."

"They would see you dead because of how you were born. Over a fact of life that you cannot change."

"They could make me tranquil," she shrugs.

Solas scowls, snarling his lips with a furious growl at the word. Mouse tries not to flinch at his outburst but finds herself shifting away from him anyway. She drops her chin and hides behind her hair.

"A kind of cruelty their witless minds will never fully understand," he spits. "To sever one from the Fade is to...to..." Solas hands her his bread without a word and she takes it with gluttonous hunger. He clenches his now empty hands into fists and rests them white-knuckled on his thighs. 

They sit in silence. Mouse fusses with the bread, wrapping it in a kerchief before stowing it away in her pack for later. Solas tenses his shoulders and opens his mouth to say something but shuts it before any sound comes out. 

"Da'len." His voice is firm but tentative at the edges. "Tell me." 

Mouse peeks out from beneath her dirty hair, pushing it to the side and tucking it behind one pointed ear. Solas is slightly flushed, pink fading away from his cheeks as he reigns in his temper.

"Tell me what you know of the Fen'harel. Of the Elvhen gods."


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe, Tranquil, and what you see when you close your eyes.

There is something about Redcliffe that Mouse doesn't like but she can't figure out what exactly about it she doesn't like. It reminds her of eating beautiful looking berries, freshly washed so they slip over her lips with ease, and biting down only to find they are bitter. Disappointing. It sticks to the back of her tongue and makes everything else taste just as bitter.

The air is wrong, she thinks.

The smell of ozone hangs heavy and low. It fills her nostrils and she finds it hard to breathe. Sometimes the clouds flicker and it makes her rub her eyes. Too hard and she sees stars behind her eyelids. Clouds don't flicker like candlelight, do they?

Maybe they do in Redcliffe.

She listens to the story-teller spin a story of the crisis that happened over a decade ago. A decade ago Mouse was hiding her head in books and holding her breath every time a Templar so much as glanced in her direction. The story-teller talks of the walking dead and demons. Throws in the Hero of Ferelden and Archdemons and whatever else and Mouse just can't seem to focus anymore.

The clouds jump from one spot of the sky to the next. The birds change their flight patterns in impossible ways. Mouse can't remember why she's here. She sees it, green, in the corner of her eyes. She ignores it like always.

Mouse digs a finger into her gums, digging out a seed embedded between her teeth. She rocks on her feet as she stands by the statue in the center of the village. She licks her teeth free of the seed and notes happily they are still slick from the half-hearted scrub she gave them that morning.

She can't remember what she came here to do. She wrote a letter to...to, someone. Sent it off with some wide-eyed elven boy who stutters. Now she can't recall who the letter was for or what it was even about.

The air is wrong. It makes her eyes water.

The story-teller starts her tale again for some newcomers, a strange looking group that sticks out in Redcliffe worse than the rebel mages do. A dwarf with an alarming amount of chest hair leans on a strange looking crossbow. A tall human woman with cropped hair rolls her eyes and leans down to say something to another, smaller human woman.

That one. That human woman. She's like the air in Redcliffe. She flickers when Mouse blinks. Sickly green like the hole in the sky. The woman's left hand clenches into fist and Mouse swears that for the briefest moment she glows.

Mouse watches them idly, chewing on her bottom lip with her canine teeth. A fly buzzes by her ear and she ignores it. The birds change directions again.

She recognizes a man from the group listening to the rambling storyteller. His name sparks in her mind like a match birthing a flame. So bright she visibly winces. He catches her eye and nods so slightly that she thinks she imagined it.

Mouse scrunches up her nose and rubs it roughly with the back of her hand. There is something about Redcliffe that she doesn't like but she can't figure out what exactly it is she doesn't like. It reminds her of eating ripe berries, so achingly bright and juicy looking her mouth waters at the thought, and biting down only to find they are bitter. What a waste. It sticks to the back of her tongue and...

Why did she come here again?

The air is wrong, she thinks.

*

Solas meets her when the dark has fallen and his compatriots have laid themselves to sleep at the Gull and Lantern. He slipped from his bed as soon as their breathing evened and slowed in the darkened room. Varric snores, a fact that should surprise no one seeing as from all appearances his nose has been broken at least once, and Solas is glad to miss the opening notes of his nasal aria.

Mouse waits by the side of the Chantry, fiddling with the sleeves of her found robe. Solas had taken it from the body of an unfortunate and clumsy mage somewhere in the Hinterlands. He had found the dead mage lying at the bottom of a steep incline with his head bent at the wrong angle. At least, Solas thought as he examined the robe, the poor man perished in a manner that didn't leave any holes or blood stains on the robe. It made her blend in, made her look like the rest of the rebel mages who wandered around aimlessly in Redcliffe.

Solas pauses and observes her for a moment. In the year since he had met her, she had grown less desperate looking. Fuller. Less like she'd snap under the weight of political and social upheaval that chased her at every turn. She still had a half-starved look to her but Solas figured that was something that would take more time to rectify. He found himself growing protective over her in a way that admittedly confounded him when he gave it more than a passing thought. At the very least, she had turned out to be a competent agent for his cause.

Which is why he was so confused by her confusion.

“Mouse, your letter said - “

She squints at him in the dark. “My letter?”

He speaks slowly for her to understand him in her addled state. “Yes. You sent me a letter a few days ago. I volunteered to join the Inquisitor on her trip to this village because of what you wrote.” She frowns and tightens her grip on the sleeve of her robe. Her eyes had a glazed look to them and he furrows his brow as she closes one eye, then the other, tightly. Mouse shakes her head and sighs.

“The air, Solas. Can't you tell? It's wrong here.”

“The Tevinter Magister has apparently figured out time magic. He is rewinding and resetting everything he does not care for.” Solas rubs his chin. He doesn't like her like this. She seems drunk, intoxicated on her own muddled thoughts. “I suppose it only makes sense that it would cause you to feel displaced.”

Mouse pulls at her sleeve. It's too long and covers her hands to the middle knuckles of her fingers. A thread comes undone under her restless touch.

“You are sensitive to the changes in the Fade, da'len. The Veil is so thin in this place that you could poke holes through it with a finger.” He raises his hand and pats the top of her head with an affectionate gesture. She leans into his palm like a cat and he resists the urge to dig his fingers into her scalp. He suddenly feels awkward at the display and drops his hand limply to his side. “I am sorry to have sent you here.”

Mouse is nonplussed at his unusual touch. She nods and leans against the wall. She is swimming in the stolen robe and it makes her look even smaller, something Solas didn't think was possible.

She rolls her shoulders back. "Can't you see it? The green leeches into this place." 

Solas tilts his head, absorbing her words slowly. He eyes her carefully as she looks out into the darkened village. "See?"

“I want to leave this place, Solas. Can't I come to Haven?” She dodges his question, choosing instead to press herself harder against the building.

He ponders this as he scrutinizes her fidgeting form on the Chantry wall. She runs a hand over the brick, her fingers poking and prodding at the mortar. Having an agent at Haven _would_ be convenient, he concedes after a moment. So far he had been slow in his recruiting the elves who worked for the Inquisition. They had proven to be frustratingly loyal to the fledgling organization even though they were doing the exact same demeaning jobs they would be doing anywhere else in Thedas. Being a part of the Inquisition gave them a purpose, one they held tightly to their chests with a grip that he had yet to break. The cracks were there, old resentments he could exploit, and only patience would aid him in his plan.

The so-called Herald, he mused bitterly, was human. Round ears and all. Disappointment hummed a mocking tune that hardened the marrow in his bones. A brief, simmering anger swelled in his belly as he thought of the elvhen magic, _his_ magic, that flowed through their mortal body. It wasn't meant for Corypheus and it certainly wasn't meant for some human slavishly devoted to the Circles and the Chantry that cloistered her from a young age. He had bitten back his tongue whenever the Inquisitor spoke fondly of her time in the Ostwick Circle to Madame de Fer, the Orlesian mage who saw the young Trevelyan as her ticket back into relevancy.

But, despite all of this, he found Trevelyan pleasant company. She was pretty, certainly becoming enough to make the golden-haired Commander flush a dark red whenever she spoke to him, and was a competent mage. Her spellcasting was rigid, fraught with the hard rules beaten into her from her time in the Circle, but she could loosen the grip of her Chantry education with gentle prodding and instruction. She, however, was not infallible and suffered the same downfalls as the rest of her kind. She was naive, almost laughably so, and prone to the kind of casual racism that made him nearly roll his eyes right out of his head. When she had asked Varric if he was afraid of falling into the sky or if he had some kind of disease that prevented him from growing a proper dwarven beard it had taken all of his strength not to choke on his own tongue. She was earnest, though, and that allowed her to skirt over any personality defect she displayed. It was a sad fact that a pretty face was a forgivable face no matter what nonsense poured out of those pert lips.

“Solas?”

Mouse poked him in the chest with one curious finger. He had gotten lost in his thoughts again, an occurrence that felt like it was happening more and more each day he spent in this hobbled world.

“Yes. Yes, Mouse. The Herald and her retinue will leave early tomorrow but she has recruited a young Tranquil to join us in Haven. Accompany him and I will see to it that you are settled into the Inquisition.”

She smiled at him (wide open with too many teeth in a good way) and, for a moment, Solas felt a sense of protectiveness wash over him. Yes. He would get her out of this discombobulating village and to a place where she could breathe again. He would get her away from the Magister and his time magic.

Yes. He would bring her to Haven with him and there. There she would be with him and be safe.

*

It took only a few steps outside of Redcliffe for Mouse to feel as if she could breathe again. She inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with sanity. The clouds and birds followed the proper order of things. The human woman, the Herald, still quivered in an aura of green whenever Mouse stole a glance at her. She soon found it easier to just keep her eyes on the ground in front of her and pointedly ignore the way the human looked _wrong_.

The Tranquil walking beside her made her heart ache. Clemence, he tells her in a flat way that makes her stop mid-step. She smiles at him and holds onto his sleeve at the elbow. The terrain outside of Redcliffe is uneven and she finds he has the habit of dragging his feet. He thanks her in the same tone of voice. Mouse swallows down the bile that rises in her throat.

Her nose itches at the memory of blood.

*

They back you into a corner, treat you like an animal, and are surprised when you use the only weapon left available to you.

It's their fault. This. This which is life used to bring death. It flows and it is endless. Why not? Why not use the only weapon they cannot take from you?

When it is over and you are bathed in the mistakes of others, nothing is the same. You see it, then. The green. It dances at the edge of your vision and no matter how tightly you close your eyes it is there. Waiting.

You used the weapon that pours from your veins and now you see the other side of the world (you pulled back the curtain to look out the window and _it looked back_ ) and it is beautiful and overwhelming and grotesque.

You used the red (all gone it's all gone) and now all you are left with is the green.

*

In Haven, Mouse is colder than she has ever been no matter how many layers of clothing she buries herself in. It would be comical, her shrunken form wrapped in furs and leathers like an Avvar, if she wasn't so damn cold.

Solas enchants a pair of footwraps for her, warmer than any fur-lined boot, and she almost cries in gratitude. He does the same for a coat, a scarf. A pair of breeches she tailors with a dull needle to fit her scrawny legs. She is embraced by his magic and she feels saturated in it.

He is kind to her and she doesn't know what to do with herself. The last time someone was this nice to her was so long ago that any kindness directed towards her feels foreign. It makes her itch.

She makes herself useful for him. Scurries around finding herbs and books for him to read. Parchment he can write on. She brings him news from his other agents written in a code she can't decipher. The dwarf teases and calls her his lady-in-waiting. Solas scoffs but accepts a bundle of herbs from her trembling hands with a pleased expression.

The dwarf, Varric, speaks so quickly she has to focus all of her attention on him just to follow. She laughs at his jokes even when she's not sure what he's actually said. He is kind, too, and she is beginning to feel overwhelmed.

“I'd give you a nickname, Mouse, but I don't think I can come up with one better than, well, _Mouse_.”

She laughs shyly and steps closer to Solas. He towers over her and she feels safe in his shadow. He lays a hand on her shoulder, curling his fingers over the thin bone, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

She doesn't know what to do with this kindness. It waters her and she can feel herself stretching toward the sun.

*

“Have you always been able to see the Veil?”

She squirms under his scrutiny.

“No.”

He sat her in a chair by the fireplace, letting her warm herself as he interrogated her. She was always cold, his Mouse. It worried him. It worried him almost as much as the fact that he began to refer to her in his head as _his_ Mouse.

Introspection would have to wait. This new (or not so new) development piqued his interest like no other.

Mouse gazes around the cabin, taking in the leftover decor and furniture he claimed as his own. The desk by the window overflowing with the herbs and books she brought him. She smiles softly and for a moment she appears so heartbreakingly young that Solas feels a sort of disgust rising in his stomach. Disgust at himself and for what he's dragged her into. The painting of the bald human hanging in the corner made her eyes bulge out of her head. He stifles a laugh. It _was_ a particularly hideous portrait of a particularly hideous person.

Solas moved to sit on the edge of his small bed and planted his feet firmly on the hard wooden floor.

“I don't really see it. It's like...” She rolls the words over in her mouth, trying to find the one that best fits. Solas watched her with keen interest. Mouse holds up a hand and rubs her thumb over the pads of her fingers. The sound of skin touching skin emanating from her movement.

“Gossamer.” Her voice is faint and barely audible over the sound of her fingers moving together. “Fog. Over my eyes. Sometimes it is thick and I can hardly see past it. Most of the time I see normally. Other times...”

Mouse looks up and into his eyes. Impossibly dark irises reflect the whole room back at him. Solas stills, heart beating wildly in his chest.

“I see right through it.”

 His mind races at the implications of what she just told him. She remains seated, hands now clasped in her lap as she waits for his reaction. 

"How." He runs a hand over his forehead to the nape of his neck. "How long have you been able to see?"

She hums and taps her feet on the floor. She's wearing the footwraps he enchanted for her. The coat. The scarf. The disgust stirs in him again.

"After Kirkwall. The explosion at the Chantry."

"Nearly four years?" He's breathless. Mouse wrinkles her nose.

"Oh that's..." She looks lost momentarily. She exhales with a drawn out shudder. "It's been four years already." She says it with a sort of casualness that it stupifies him. She spoke like she just remembered that she had forgotten to take in the laundry from the line.

She should be mad, he thinks. To see into the Fade without sleeping, her mind must...he cannot comprehend it. Perhaps she is a little mad, he thinks.

"Do you see the tears, then? Before they happen?" 

"Mmm. Yes and no." Mouse taps her bare toes against the floor again. She's wriggling, fidgeting again. Her anxiety building. "Sometimes they happen so quickly I cannot see. Others open slowly like a hole sewn closed poorly and picked at with sharp fingernails."

"It's okay, Solas. It's not all of the time." She rubs her hands over her thighs and pulls the corners of her lips up in a fake smile. She's trying to reassure him and it makes him feel ill. She smiles wider, white teeth peeking out from strained lips. "It's all my fault, anyway."

Solas leans back and drops his head back to gaze up at the ceiling. The light of the fire makes the shadows dance on the wood. He picks out the shadows that belong to him, to her, and watches them stretch across the room. 

"I am leaving for Redcliffe again with the Herald tomorrow, da'len." Mouse's shadow shifts and shrinks. "When I come back, I will...I will research this. I will find a way to fix this or-" He pauses and drops his eyes back to her. She sits, illuminated by the fire at her side, a pale figure waiting for him to tell her the answers to every question she never knew she had.

"Teach you to use this to your. To  _our_ advantage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playing with DA magic canon like pew pew pew
> 
> edited because i kept referring to trevelyan as "inquisitor" and we ain't at that part of the story yet lol


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A library, a guessing game, and learning how to describe your waking nightmares.

Mouse sat on a tree stump staring out into the forest that circled Haven. The sound of the soldiers practicing in the field behind her was a distant hum she barely paid attention to. To a casual observer, she appeared to be lost in thought. Perhaps even meditating.

The Veil was thin here. Stretched like tanned hide over a wooden frame. Her fingers twitched against her palms. She tried to think of ways to describe it, put it into words so that when Solas returned from Redcliffe he would understand. Understand what it meant to see and to not see.

It wasn't a physical barrier. It wasn't something she could touch and run her curious fingers over. Mouse grimaced and chided herself mentally. Solas created the damn thing and of course he knew that – she bit her tongue lightly and searched her brain for the words that just wouldn't come.

Mist-like vibrations. She could see it but, when she reached out for it, it was gone. Dissolved between her fingertips and it was like it had never been there at all. It ignored the physical properties of this world; cutting through the trees like blades but leaving no wounds behind. It was both flowing and stiff. People walked through it like it was nothing and it _was_ nothing, really.

The Veil was beautiful, in a way. It made ordinary things glow like holy relics. The Herald sometimes shone so bright Mouse had to look away. Solas, too, was illuminated in an unearthly way. He burned golden and it made her ache from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. This was the Fade leaking through, easing through the holes effortlessly like liquid through a strainer. She admittedly never saw a spirit or a demon passing through the tears. She was too afraid of what she'd see. Spirits caught near rifts as they opened were forced through, Solas told her. They were corrupted. It made her clench her teeth when she thought about how it must have felt. Was the transformation from spirit to demon painful? Did they contort and stretch as their purpose was ripped away from them? Spirits did not have bones or even corporeal forms, but if they did, would it feel like they were breaking?

The Veil in Haven was thin in random spots and it made everything seem almost dream-like. Sometimes she had to double check as she reached out for things, hesitating just in case it was an object bleeding in from the Fade. A few days ago her hand slipped through a book she thought was lying on Solas' desk. She turned bright red when he looked at her, perplexed, as by all appearances it looked like she just slammed her hand onto the desk for no reason. _There was a fly_ , she lied as she cradled her sore hand against her chest.

Mouse closed her eyes and pictured the snow as it fell on the ground. Soft and powdery. She never saw snow in Kirkwall. Almost like it was too afraid to enter the city of chains. It wasn't until she arrived in Ferelden that she saw snow for the first time. It was beautiful, more beautiful than she could have ever have imagined.

She just wished it wasn't so green.

*

The archives are blessedly quiet, buried in the Chantry basement with cold stone walls, and Mouse finds herself spending a lot of time there. She runs a hand over the spine of a leather-bound book and traces a finger over the faded gold embossed title.

Back at the Gallows, she worked in the library pulling books for the senior enchanters to either read for themselves or send to other Circles. She found it peaceful and relished being able to hide behind the tall shelves. Keeping herself away from the ever watchful eyes of the templars who skulked around the halls.

Here, in Haven, the books are mostly dull affairs about Andraste and the history of the Chantry. A few interesting books could be found if you dug deep enough. Somehow, a written account of the spending habits of the Revered Mother of Denerim was shoved behind a copy of the _Chant of Light_. Mouse stifles a laugh at the staggering amount the woman spent of wine and something vaguely labeled as “entertainment”.

She scans her eyes over the titles lining the shelves, trying to find something on magic that couldn't be summarized as _“magic bad Circle good Maker great”_. She was having no luck so far. She peered around the shelf in front of her, squinting her eyes to zone in on the rustling she heard on the other side of the room.

There is someone else in the archives: a tall figure reshelving books from a pile on the floor. They made soft mouth sounds as they lifted another book of the pile. Little puffs of breath that escaped every time they bent over. Mouse eases her way around the shelving, trying to make enough noise not to spook the other person as she approached.

“Excuse me, I was looking for-”

The figure turns around swiftly, revealing a sallow-skinned human man of indeterminate age. In the center of his forehead, behind long wisps of ash blond hair, the radiating sun of the Chantry. Mouse swallows down a gasp and attempts to collect herself.

The Tranquil tilts his head down to establish eye contact and paints his face with a placid smile. It is practiced, nearly perfect, but there is something about the way the smile doesn't reach his eyes that makes her gulp. “Hello, my name is Eoin. Is there something you need help finding in the archives?” His heavy Ferelden accent sounds strange coming from his emotionless face.

“I – Yes, actually. Anything on magic that's not so...” Mouse waves a hand around vaguely before dropping it to down to her hip. She shifts from one foot to the other, trying to find a place to stare at that wasn't the burning sun on the man's forehead. She settles on his dimpled chin.

“Our library is only stocked with books approved by the Chantry and Revered Mother of Denerim.” He is amiable but flat like all Tranquil.

“Oh, I see.”

His blue eyes are empty and stare right through her. Mouse finds herself fidgeting again. “If there is a specific title or topic you wish to read about, I can ask the Lady Ambassador to add it to the list of requisitions.” Eoin turns back to the shelf and pushes the book in his hand in between two others. He waits until it makes a small thumping sound, confirming it has touched the back of the shelf, then pulls his hand away.

“I will make a list and give it to you later.” She thinks of the Tranquil she knew in Kirkwall. The way they would work tirelessly without stopping. Some of them had to be pulled away from their duties to take care of basic bodily functions. She remembers tapping on shoulders, gently instructing them to visit the latrine or to sit and rest. She chews on her bottom lip as she watches him continue to straighten the shelves. “Eoin, have you eaten today?”

He shakes his head from side to side, indicating that he has not. Mouse sighs and places a hand tentatively on his shoulder. “It's midday, Eoin. Come, I'll take you to the tavern.” He is still, thinking how much work he still had left to do she assumes, and steps back from the shelf.

“Yes. It is time to eat.”

*

They avoided looking at the newcomers as they sat at the table tucked into the corner of the tavern. Mouse places a bowl of stew in front of Eoin and tells him to wait a moment before eating. It's still hot, she chides him in a soft motherly tone. He sits, his large hands folded in his lap, and waits obediently.

They avoid them, the elven mage and the Tranquil, because they are reminders of everything they'd like to forget about this world.

*

Mouse is sitting on the floor of the archives, legs tucked beneath her and her back against a shelf, idly paging through a book about the martyrs of Andraste. The names all blur together but their fates are all the same: glorious death in the name of the Maker. Hallelujah, blessed be.

The sound of heavy footsteps stomping across the floor above snap her out of her grim daydreams. One set followed by another, then the slamming of doors one after the next. For a building made out of stone, sound travels through the Haven Chantry remarkably well. It seeps through the cracks in the walls and echoes off the bookshelves. Murmurs follow an indistinct conversation that Mouse finds herself increasingly curious about. It fades, tucked in behind heavy wooden doors and hushed whispers.

Eoin ignores the commotion and continues to work on his current assignment: trimming the wicks of the prayer candles to be put away for storage. He is efficient – lining them up neatly on the table and snipping down the row with sharpened silver shears. A pile of curled, burnt black wicks grows in his lap.

Mouse tilts her head to the side as if that would give her the innate ability to hear better. The floor above is quiet now but for the faint footfalls of the Chantry sisters and their soft-soled slippers. She closes the book of martyrs then twists at the waist to stretch her arm up to place it back on the shelf. A hand reaches above her and pulls the book back out.

“ _'Bless't Names of the Maker's Children_ '? Sounds like a real page-turner.” A crisp voice, masculine and educated. Mouse blinks as she presses against the shelf and turns her head to examine the pair of legs that suddenly in front of her. Doe brown leather and too many buckles. What a strange outfit. She looks up and into the face of the owner of the voice.

“That, my dear, was sarcasm.” His overly groomed mustache twitches in amusement. “I forget. Do you Fereldens understand sarcasm?”

Mouse scrambles out from under his feet and stands. She pulls at the scarf around her neck before running a hand through her stringy hair. “I'm not Ferelden.” She tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. The man's eyes shift quickly to her pointed ears and then back to her face. He smiles and, to her surprise, it's an honest one. Soft brown wrinkles bracket his pale eyes.

“Hmm. A guessing game! You're obviously not Orlesian. I don't think they'd let you out of the country wearing _that_.” He waves a dismissive hand over the clothes Solas picked out for her. Mouse fights the urge to pout. “A Marcher, then? But what kind? Curious and curious.” The mustached man taps a long, elegant finger to his chin. He steps back to take her in entirely. He looks pointedly at her footwraps then back to her face. One manicured eyebrow raises and the smile on his face is positively a grin now.

“Not Starkhaven. You don't have that delicious accent.” He crosses his arms and taps the heel of one foot on the stone floor. “Nor Wycome or Tantervale.” He chews on his lips for a moment before muttering, “I don't believe they actually let people leave Tantervale.” The little patch of facial hair under his lip quivers.

Before she has the chance to even open her mouth, he claps both hands together and closes his eyes in triumph. “Kirkwall.” He says it like a revelation and it falls from his lips in mocking reverence.

“What? How-” Mouse stutters.

He drops his hands to his hips and clicks his tongue at her playfully. “You have to look of someone who has eaten a jellied meat dish and enjoyed it.”

Mouse rubs her nose with the back of her hand, taking the opportunity to hide her face with her hair as it falls from behind her ears. “They're not that bad.” It's a lie but she feels like she needs to defend her hometown even if its jellied meat delicacies were off-putting.

“Darling. Be honest now.” The mustache man tucks her loose hair back behind her ear and Mouse feels a slight pink tinge on her cheeks. “Dorian of House Pavus. If you hear someone snarling about _the_ _Vint_ , it is I they are speaking of.” Dorian leans in expectantly and Mouse murmurs her name loud enough for him to hear. Straightening himself up, he takes the chance to examine the bookshelf behind her and frowns before sighing, “How grim.”

Mouse wonders for a moment if he's talking about her or the book selection.

Dorian spins on his heel with a flourish. “Now if you excuse me, Lady Mouse, I do believe I'm expected back upstairs. I wonder how they're going to blame this whole time magic business on me.” He walks away, swaying in an overconfident way that Mouse could never dream of ever experiencing for herself, and waves a hand behind him. “Pray to the Maker for me, Mouse. I'm going to need it.”

At the table in the center of the room, Eoin sets down his shears and sweeps his hand across the wooden surface to gather the spent wicks in a tidy pile.

*

When the sun sets behind the mountains, Mouse asks Solas to meet her by the tree stump overlooking the spread of wilderness that surrounds Haven. She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, burying her nose in the dull brown fabric.

Solas arrives as the stars begin to open their eyes.

Mouse holds out her arm and motions for him to sit on the stump. He obliges, tucking his cloak under him as he lowers himself to sit. Standing behind him, she takes a deep breath and stares out at the black trees. Their limbs were heavy with snow and drooped slightly to the ground.

“What do you see when you look out at the trees, Solas?” Her breath comes out in a white cloud that dissipates into the cold air as soon as it leaves her lips.

“I only see the trees but I sense that the Veil is exceptionally thin here.” He turns his head to look up at her. “What do you see, _emma moludh_?”

Mouse feels her lips twitch at his use of Elvhen. Solas shrugs and looks back at the trees, “Term of endearment for a friend.”

When they had first met in the forest a year ago, Solas had mentioned teaching her some Elvhen. She had known a few words and phrases – simple, basic things that most elven children would know. _Mamae. On dhea. Fen'harel ver na._

Mother. Good morning. Dread wolf take you.

Basic things.

So far her education had gone slowly. After their meeting, Solas had sent her to Highever to meet with some of his other agents. Then to Denerim. Honnleath (what a waste of time that was). Then a long, tiresome trip to Orlais that she'd rather forget about. Then, finally, Redcliffe. There had never been any time, really, to sit down and learn Elvhen. Her encounters with him were brief and usually strictly professional. It was in their letters that they found the easy yet tentative beginning of a friendship. Mouse hadn't meant to include a page of her personal feelings on her trip to Honnleath (the word “backwater shithole” _might_ have made an appearance) but when Solas had included a genuine yet clearly amused apology in his reply, Mouse found herself including more casual statements in her reports to him. Little comments, here and there, in between coded messages.

Mouse rubbed the tip of her tongue on the hard ridge of her palate. _Emma moludh._ She put it away for later, buried it under the growing list of things she wanted to know more about.

Crouching down beside him, her knees dipping into the freshly fallen snow, Mouse found the words to describe to Solas what she saw when she looked past this world and into what existed on the bleeding edges. He listened, almost completely silent but for a sharp intake of breath on statements he found particularly interesting. As she spoke into his ear, Solas looked out to the woods as if from her words alone he could finally see what she was talking about. 

Mouse tried, to the best of her ability, to show him the world he had created.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen courtesy of ever useful Project Elvhen!  
> mamae - mother  
> on dhea - good morning  
> fen'harel ver na - dread wolf take you  
> emma moludh - uhh i kind of pieced this one together so it's _emma_ [my, possessive] + _mol_ [mouse] + _-udh_ [diminutive like 'ette' meaning cute, little, etc.] so sort of like saying "my little mouse".


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories, fire, and regret.

When she first arrived at the Gallows, she was nothing but a pair of large dark eyes peering out from a face nearly blackened with dirt. They wrinkled their noses at her and threw her in a tub of hot water. They scrubbed her skin red and raw with callous hands. Dressed her in a robe too big and shoved her feet in a pair of shoes too small.

 _What its name_ , a figure clad in iron asked.

 _Don't know it won't talk_ , replied another. No one has faces where they're supposed to here, she thinks. Eyes, radiating with holy flames, staring at her from the middle of their chests. Their bodies are mixed-up and wrong.

It. It. _IT_ they call her. She wants to scream and cry but an overwhelming fear holds her back. She is a bug and they could crush her with one iron finger.

My name is – _My name is -_

They call her Mouse until she cannot recall the name she had before.

*

Solas admonished himself for his slip-up the night Mouse had shown him the forest. The memory of calling her _emma moludh_ played over and over again in his head. His little mouse. His.

Sentiment for this world, for its hollow people, would get him nowhere.

And, yet. Yet. He found himself as he always did: caring, sometimes too much (always too much), for a world that would rather spit in his face than listen to him. His name meant pride but Solas wondered if perhaps “sentimental old fool who needs to focus on the task at hand” would fit him better. It was a mouthful but at least it laid out his weaknesses for all to see.

Solas circled the edge of the crowd that gathered in the center of the village. The people of Haven celebrated the closing of the Breach – an event that had been both strangely difficult yet worryingly easy. The Herald had done what she was burdened with aplomb. He had to give the young human this: she was adaptable. Trevelyn accepted her punishment for being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the casualness of any other job. It was only that this job involved the very world tearing itself apart.

It was his fault. All of it. Somehow it was always his fault.

The campfires burned as revelers sat around in tangles of loosely entwined limbs and spilled ale. Solas was admittedly a bit bewildered by the suddenly forgotten old prejudices that permeated even the small scale society of Haven. Mages and templars sharing drinks. Men and women of all races sat side by side, some even dancing with one another as the minstrel plucked at her lute. Well, Solas thought, almost all of the races. The Iron Bull had still been the only Qunari to join the Inquisition. Victory and alcohol make allies of us all, he mused.

A slight prickle of _something_ made the hairs on his neck stand up. Solas frowned and rubbed a hand over the skin there.

The Herald herself stood with an arm thrown around Ambassador Montilyet's shoulder. The Ambassador's golden blouse glowed eerily in the low light. The two women spoke animatedly with the Seeker and the Commander banking them from both sides. Solas watched the group of humans with a calm interest. Their conversation was unknown to him as he studied their facial expressions. The Ambassador's lips were turned up in girlish excitement yet the bags under her eyes were purple and strained. The Seeker stood tall, determined and proud. The Commander appeared victorious but still not at ease. This victory was a relief but he expected something more. The Herald appeared as she always did: curiously relaxed despite all that had been thrown at her. Solas wondered when the cracks would splinter her affable affectation.

A low rumble in the distance. His ears twitched. The mountains moving, inching along the horizon, at a snail's pace.

Solas searched through the celebration for his – _no –_ Mouse. She sat, a comically large mug in her small hands, next to the Tranquil man she had seemingly adopted as her own. Solas bit back a smile. Mouse had an affinity to the Tranquil, he knew, but watching her in action was entirely something else. She was not the most upfront person and spent most of her time hiding behind her hair. Mouse never stood up for herself even when he thought she ought to. She practically absorbed any abuse hurled her way like a sponge. However, when it came to the Tranquil, Mouse had a strength that Solas found pleasantly surprising. She defended them quietly, pulling them along whenever someone stood in their way. Perhaps she saw herself in the Tranquil, the way they were pushed aside and how people pretended they didn't exist.

Snow crushed under many marching feet. Solas stiffened and turned his head to the front gates.

*

Mouse burns from all sides. Her back was hit with something she was sadly all too familiar with. The smite hit her square between her shoulders, pulling her down to her knees in the dirty snow. Green caked her shins and her hands as she threw them out to steady herself. Her veins screamed at the magic leaving her body.

Then, at the front, something she's never felt before but she recognized it all the same. Burning, climbing her shoulder like an errant insect. It buzzed at her neck and she swiped at hand at it. It bit at her skin and tickled her nostrils with the smell of – the smell of – her brain wouldn't let her complete the thought. It hurt all over and any attempt to pinpoint the pain made her head feel like it would float off her shoulders.

At the Circle they had drilled into her at a young age: do not play with fire. Now, fire was playing with her.

Then, darkness. The screams still remained, amplified by the sudden absence of light. Hands slammed into her, palms flat and rubbing at the dark. A voice, closer than the screams, on the other side of the darkness.

“I have put out the fire. Do you need a healing salve?”

Mouse pulled at the blanket Eoin had thrown over her, wrapping it around her shoulders like a cloak. The tall Tranquil man stood staring at her as the other residents of Haven ran towards the Chantry. Bodies laid on the ground, contorted in the positions they had fallen in. For one brief naive moment, Mouse had thought they appeared as if they were sleeping.

Her face stung from the cold but her skin felt hotter than the sun.

“Your neck and the back of your head have been burned. Do you need healing, Mouse?” Eoin repeated himself again, sounding more insistent this time.

Mouse shook her head, holding a hand to her jaw and urging any magic that might be left to come out. Nothing. Her mana was squeezed dry and her bones ached for it. Eoin picked her up, shifting his large hands to settle her in a bridal carry. Mouse bit back a scream as the rush of air against her skin felt like pointed barbs. Eoin held her tighter.

Mouse clutched at the robes covering his chest, fingers gripping the fabric under her nails. Green, then black seeped into the corners of her eyes as she felt the pull of the Fade calling to her. Unconsciousness came with the screams of the people of Haven filling her ears.

*

Panic rattled in his chest like a trapped animal. It chewed on its own paws, bloodied jaw filled with the taste of his barely restrained emotions.

His fault _his fault_ his fault.

Mistakes piled up around him like the dead, scratching at his ankles with accusing fingers.

 _Your fault_ , they said. _Your fault, again,_ they chanted.

 _My fault, my fault,_ he cried.

*

Cold, then warm. A hand resting on her forehead, then gently prodding the skin marred by fire. The left side of her neck, her ear, the edge of her hairline. Cool wind caressed her scalp – they had cut her hair, she thought. The sound of short, bristled hair against the fabric of the cot made her tiny, tiny sense of vanity curl up in horror. _Maker, how much was gone? How ugly am I now?_

The hand touched her ear hesitantly. A finger ran down the bottom lobe, the nail carefully avoiding scratching the sensitive flesh. A small, not unpleasant but completely unexpected, heat coiled in her belly. Mouse shifted in her sleep, offering her ear up to the hand like a mabari begging for pets. The hand pulled back. Shame and disappointment filtered through her head, still a little hazy but strong enough for a slight blush to burn at her cheeks.

“You are awake, da'len?”

Mouse groaned and rolled onto her side toward the voice. She opened her eyes to a makeshift camp and Solas looking down at her.

“What happened, hahren?” Her voice sounds foreign to her ears.

His mouth dropped into a grim line. Solas looked away, surveying as if he had just seen the camp for himself, before turning back to her. He lowered himself to sit beside her and rests a hand on the edge of the thin cot. Mouse sighs when she realizes that she's laying on the ground, only the thin fabric separating her from the hard frost. The frozen dirt feels amazing against her tired body and she tries to stretch, to pull her muscles apart so more of the cold can reach her bones.

“Haven is gone. The losses were...catastrophic.” Solas tucked in his chin and closed his eyes. His voice falls into a harsh whisper that only she can hear. “It seems my plans have a habit of falling apart.”

Shame. Guilt. Mouse wonders if anything has ever gone right for him. She wills a hand to reach up and out, to comfort him. She touches the dimple of his chin with her fingertips. Solas's eyes widen at her touch and he opens his mouth to say something before a shout rises in the dark.

“It's the Herald! She lives!”

*

They pull him away, make him work healing someone of greater importance. Mouse doesn't blame them. She's just a librarian. In the grand scheme of things, the so-called Herald of Andraste is quite a bit higher in the hierarchy than a librarian without a library.

“Burn burning burnt. It works its way from the inside out. Ugly then, ugly now. There is no difference. The plan's the same.”

The voice pauses then softer, reassuring: “You aren't ugly.”

Mouse smiles despite herself. The boy is nearly incandescent, so bright she has to close her eyes for a moment. She opens them again and glances up at the boy sitting next to her. He blinks, then hides beneath his hat.

“You see. Solas said you did.”

She squirms, her body screaming for her to sit up and use her muscles instead of wasting away on this threadbare cot. Mouse pushes her hands behind her, sitting up with a groan. Her injuries were thankfully numbed by whatever magic Solas used but they still pulled oddly when she moved. Her lack of hair felt even more apparent as she felt the breeze pass over her head. The sky is a faded blue, the coming morning peeking through the black clouds with pink hands.

“You're...” She stops, then squints at him. “You know Solas?”

The boy smiles, gummy and bright. “I'm Cole. I'm here to help.”

Long, spidery fingers fidget with the stitches of his leather shoulder piece. Mouse fights the urge to run a hand through her hair to gauge the damage.

“They cut it off because the fire took most of it.”

Mouse frowns, “They could have at least left me a fringe. Now my forehead is all exposed.”

Cole gazes at her forehead with a dazed look. “Is there something wrong with it?”

Mouse silently scolds herself for her vanity. She stretches her legs out, pointing her toes and feeling the muscles awaken with each flex of her feet. Cole watches her for a moment, then mimics her actions. She laughs, a tiny puff of air escaping from her closed mouth as he moves his feet back and forth.

“You're a spirit, aren't you Cole?”

Cole wiggles his hips in quiet confirmation as his feet point straight ahead. He reaches forward, stretching his fingers over the tops of his boots. He suddenly reminds her of an adolescent cat, all awkward long limbs but a growing grace that reflects in the way he moves through space.

“I'm here to help,” he smiles shyly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter but work is killing me ahhh


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow, regrouping, and language lessons.

Mouse was never an exceptional dreamer even on her best days. Her dreams were dull affairs and predictable enough that she could often tell exactly how they would end.

As a child, she dreamed of the nameless alienage she had grown up in. She dreamt of the vhenadahl that grew there, its leaves visible from the hole in the wall that passed as a window in the bedroom she shared with her parents. The leaves, waxy green and slightly bug eaten, would burst into flames as she watched through the hole. The smoke would drift into the room, heavy in the air, and she would wake up with reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

When she began puberty, her dreams took on a hormonal slant that still makes her blush when she thinks about it. Whispered trysts in dark corners and robes lifted for easy access. For several horribly confusing months, she found herself dreaming of First Enchanter Orsino and the fingerless gloves he wore. She never could look him in the eye the morning after one of those dreams. Sometimes, when she finds herself feeling lonely, she still thinks about those gloves and his delicate fingers.

As an adult, before and after she left the Gallows, Mouse dreamed of forests. Not any one forest in particular, she couldn't really tell you if she had actually ever been in a true forest before she left the Free Marches. Kirkwall had trees, of course, but nothing like the ones she dreamed about. These were impossibly tall, their canopies stretched far across the sky and were so thick with leaves that barely any light passed through. It felt like a kind of permanent twilight – insects chirping their night songs, the birds roosting in low hanging branches. These were her favorite dreams until the wolf came knocking.

It sounded like a bad joke. _Knock knock._ Why did the wolf knock on the door? Because he wants to be let in. He's a polite one. The wolf.

There is no punchline because it wasn't a joke. 

Mouse tries again. Why did the wolf knock on the door? She searches for the funny part. The dreams turned frantic at this point as his claws scratched against the wood. _Tap tap._ Let me in, he purred.

Why did the wolf knock on the door? The wolf smiles: I'll make it in eventually, you know. White teeth and a dark red tongue. What a terrible joke.

Not a question anymore. She knows the answer. He scratches again and clears his throat. He knows the punchline but he won't share it. _Tap_ , one claw then another, curls his paw against the door - _knock knock_. The door cries. _TAP. TAP TAP._

Why did the wolf knock on the door? The wolf laughs and it wakes the birds. They fly off with angry warbles. _TAP. TAP._ He finds the whole business quite funny and his laughs are little earthquakes.

You're not being a very good hostess, warned the wolf. _TAP. TAP._ Mouse plugs her fingers into her ears so she can't hear his nails drag on the wood. _TAP._

_KNOCK KNOCK. WHY DID THE WOLF KNOCK ON THE DOOR?_

Because he wants to be let in, darling.

It's not a very good joke but she laughs anyway.

*

With each step snow caked in between her bare toes but Mouse couldn't feel it thanks to the enchantment Solas had placed on her footwraps. Magic thrummed in every stitch and warmth eased into her skin like a salve. Varric shivered and shook his head as he walked up beside her.

“I'll never understand you elves and your need to expose your toes to all sorts of nasty business.”

Mouse shrugged and lifted one foot up in an awkward exaggerated step. The cold air bit at her red cheeks and she ducked her head to hide her face. Without her curtain of hair, her face felt exposed. Naked. She had wrapped her scarf around her head to protect her now exposed scalp from the cold but the thin fabric it didn't do much against the random gusts of icy wind that stirred every now and then.

Their group, the survivors of the Inquisition, were being led through the mountains like a herd of lost sheep by the Herald. Trevelyan was far ahead at the front of the pack, Solas and her advisors trailing close behind her. Mouse watched the human's dark brown hair bob up and down as she traversed the uneven terrain. A bit of jealousy coiled in her stomach as she watched the midday light illuminate the Herald's curls. Mouse knew she never had exceptionally beautiful hair (ok it was kind of dirty and always just sort of hung there) but it was _hers_ and to have it taken away with so little thought made the sensitive skin of her neck ache.

“Gone and they didn't even ask. Gone gone gone.”

Mouse startled, nearly falling back at the sudden voice by her ear. Varric reached out and steadied her with one hand at her back.

“Andraste's tits, kid! You can't just sneak up behind people like that!”

Cole frowned and pulled the brim of his hat down to cover his face. His shoulders curled inward as he fell into step with them. “I'm sorry,” he murmured sorrowfully. Mouse smiled at the young man and shook her head gently, turning back to watch the group ahead of them.

Ever since they had left Haven, she found it harder and harder to speak. She initially chalked it up to her injury but, truth be told, it had nothing to do with the burns that curled around her neck. For no reason at all a heavy lump had settled in her throat and it refused to budge. It didn't hurt, nothing did thanks to Solas's magic, but it smothered her words before she even had the chance to speak them. She sighed and pulled her scarf tighter around her head. The fabric rubbed uncomfortably against her healed wounds. 

A nearby bronto snorted, kicking snow up in its wake as it was led by a harried-looking scout. The trio fell into silence as the desire for any more conversation died away. Mouse searched the faces of the staggered crowd around her. She spotted Eoin walking beside Clemence, the two Tranquil men following an unknown to her elven woman, and relief settled in her chest. She then lifted her gaze to the snow-covered trees, taking in the heavy branches that drooped over the path cleared by the Herald.

“Snow isn't green,” Cole said aloud in a clearly bewildered tone.

“Who said that? Of course it isn't green,” Varric snorted and adjusted his crossbow from where it laid against his back.

Mouse pulled her scarf over her face, hiding her mouth as she bit into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She closed her eyes just for a moment and when she opened them, it was still there. Green. All of it green.

*

Solas had told Mouse little of Skyhold after she had first woken from her injuries. He mentioned offhandedly that it had once been his and his plans to lead the Herald there. When she finally saw the high stone walls and the towers that reached toward the sky, all the breath left her lungs like she had been hugged by an overly affectionate Qunari.

What she knew about Solas's previous life wasn't much but she had stored the information she did have away like precious jewels. She knew what he did to the so-called Elvhen gods. Knew he was a dreamer who disliked tea. Knew most of his plans for this maker forsaken world. She held these tiny bits of him close, eagerly adding more to her pile the more she learned.

The fact that he never told her he had an entire goddamn fortress in the mountains admittedly stung a little bit. It made sense – what was she going to do with kind of knowledge? She didn't need a castle. Wouldn't know what to do with one, really. But when she found herself in the library, its shelves sagging under the weight of the first non-Chantry approved books she had seen in a long while, a spark ignited in her brain.

Mouse waited until everyone had settled in, rooms claimed around the fortress in a rush that made her head spin, and approached Solas in the rotunda under the library. He laid his pack on top of a wobbly desk that he dragged into the middle of the room. Mouse watched him quietly as he pulled items from his bag and begun arranging them on top of the surface. She cleared her throat to announce her presence. The lump shook in her throat but remained firm.

“When you mentioned this place, I pictured something more along the lines of Haven.” Her voice was hoarse and she coughed lightly to cover up the strained sound.

“Forgive me, then. I didn't want to oversell the place,” Solas replied with soft amusement in his voice. He turned to face her and leaned his hips against the corner of the desk. “What do you think of the library?”

Her eyes widened and suddenly her throat felt clear. “It's wonderful! I mean, it's dusty of course and some of the books are trashed but once we clean it up and restock with more modern writings I'm sure -” Mouse closed her mouth abruptly and mumbled an embarrassed apology once she realized that she was rambling. She tucked her chin into her neck and hid her face behind the fabric of her scarf. Solas laughed, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

“Do not apologize. Your enthusiasm for libraries is charming.” He looked up past the walls of the rotunda at crows roosting on the top floor. “You should have seen it before...” His voice trailed off into a pregnant pause then he started again with a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “The knowledge that was once held here would have taken your breath away.”

Mouse looked away, feeling unable to control herself from tearing up. This place, as beautiful and imposing as it was, was nothing but a mausoleum of the world Solas had lost. An awkward silence hung in the air between them. She flicked her eyes to the walls and traced faint lines marked into the plaster with charcoal. A pair of wolves flanking a sword, their heads tossed back as if to howl at some unseen moon.

Suddenly, Mouse felt a small tug on her scarf.

“May I examine your injuries?” Solas asked quietly. She nodded and allowed him to push her scarf off of her head before he pulling it off her shoulders completely. Without another word, he tucked it in a bundle under his arm. He gently prodded her neck with his fingers, dragging the tips over the raw pink skin. Mouse kept her gaze firmly on the rounded walls of the rotunda, her eyes wide as she trembled slightly under his touch. Solas methodically rubbed at her skin with a faint healing spell. His fingers lingered on her neck then moved from the underside of her jaw to her ear. Mouse fought to keep the blush that was threatening to erupt over her cheeks at bay but failed miserably. She chewed her barely scabbed over bottom lip as Solas continued to handle her ear, the warmth of his spell sending tingles racing up and down her spine. He hummed then dropped his hand to his hip.

“I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for the scarring, da'len,” he said remorsefully. “If I had only gotten to you earlier. I am sorry.”

Mouse itched for the scarf to hide her face. She didn't want him to see her, not like this. Didn't want that pity that pricked at his tear ducts. He stood too close. Her palms began to sweat.

“It's not your fault.” The lump in her throat returned with a vengeance. It pulled at the corners of her lips and make her tongue heavy in her mouth.

“It might as well have been. It seems my plans have a habit of falling apart.”

Mouse shook her head. It still felt strange, the lack of hair. Air whizzing by her naked ears. “You didn't know. No one did.”

His hands clenched into fists. “I should – I should have known better. I am still too weak.” Solas stepped back, his shoulders shaking with barely concealed rage as he battered himself verbally. “I have underestimated this world at every turn. I thought I knew better but my damnable pride still rears its ugly head. I am weak in the same ways I have always been and others. _Others_ suffer for it.” His voice dropped into a hiss, his eyes dark as he stared past her to some far off memory. “I have hurt you, an innocent, and I shall never forgive myself for it.”

Mouse, despite herself, found her hand reaching out for his arm. She grasped the fabric of his tunic between two fingers and tugged gently at his sleeve. “I am no innocent in this, you know that. Or did you forget that I have promised myself to aid you in basically destroying the world?”

The dimple on his chin wrinkled as his lips drew into a firm line. Mouse pulled her hand away from his arm and picked at her unscarred ear, scratching the skin red as she tried to find the words to reassure him.

“I am injured, yes, but I will heal. I always have.” She smiled at him weakly, thin-lipped and wane with watery eyes. She tried to keep her voice light and attempted to change the subject. “The Veil is so thin here. I can barely – I tried to open a door and when I reached out for the doorknob, it turned out there wasn't a door there at all. I looked like a right idiot, I'm sure.”

When he didn't respond she continued on, her voice becoming higher pitched as her nerves took over.

“Did you know that snow isn't green? I thought it was! Guess the light of the Veil reflected off it." Mouse then laughed, leaning back slightly as she did so, and held a hand to her stomach as if she had just told a marvelous joke. "Never saw snow in Kirkwall. Could've told me it was blue and I'd believe you."

Solas frowned and looked at her with barely concealed concern. “I had – I had forgotten about your _issue_ , da'len. Has it gotten worse? We must begin your training soon.”

“Training?”

Solas spun on his heels and stepped toward his desk, rifling through some books before picking up a sheet of plain vellum. He rubbed a hand on his chin, then picked up a quill.

“Rift magic. I think that is the answer. Your sight has become irreparably tied to the Veil and it appears, from your own statements, to be getting worse. We must strengthen your ability in manipulating the Fade. Perhaps that will aid you in discerning the two realms from each other.”

Mouse opened her mouth but the words fell away. She watched him as he lowered himself into the chair by the desk and began writing fervently.

“There hasn't been much written on the subject. It is a new and dangerous area of study for the mages of this age to discover. I believe, if we are to harness this for our benefit, I am to come up with a training regiment for you on my own.” He paused, then scratched out something he had written. Solas glowed so brightly then, an aura of green and gold rising from his bent head like a crown. It shifted and draped around his shoulders with heavy paws, a wolf of smoke and many eyes. It watched her, eyes glittering like jewels, and it grinned with sharp white teeth.

Mouse blinked and it was gone.

*

“We mustn't spend too much time licking our wounds. I don't believe this Corypheus will wait idly by as we regroup.”

The Commander tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as he nodded to the Nightingale. She sighed and looked down at the table before them. A map of Thedas laid sprawled out on top of the tree stump table, _his_ table Solas thought coolly, and little metal markers dotted the inked landscape. The Herald sat on a low stool, twisting a lock of hair absentmindedly around her index finger.

“We aren't licking our wounds. We're just figuring out what to do now,” she replied in a thin voice. The room, although not small by any means, felt crowded with the number of people currently standing awkwardly around the newly dubbed war table. Solas hung back, lingering on the edge of the room.

The Enchanter ran one finger across the surface of the wood, pulling it back with a grimace when she saw the dust caked on her fingertip. The Magister chuckled as she rubbed her fingers together and glanced around the room warily. The Qunari sat on the windowsill, his one eye watching the proceedings with an unnerving sharpness.

“This place is in need of a good dusting,” the Ambassador admitted with a pained smile. The Seeker slammed a fist down onto the table, sending the metal markers tottering across the map.

“We can talk about cleaning later. We must formulate a plan for retaliation, Herald.”

The Red Jenny snorted, “Maybe we can gather all the cobwebs and throw it at Cory-whatshisface. Dusty doom. Death by sneezing, innit?” The blonde elf mimicked out of control sneezing and grabbed her chest dramatically then crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue with a choking death rattle. The Child of Stone and the Warden leaned against the table, ducking their heads and barely holding in laughter at the imagery of death by sneezing. The Qunari snorted and shook his head. Solas resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

 _Shemlens._ The word popped in his head as he took in the people around him. Quick children. Bickering over inanities while the world fell to pieces around them. Would they continue to argue about dust when the sky finally ripped in two? Would they place so much importance on cleanliness when the walls around them were crumbling down? He clasped his hands behind his back, knuckles strained white as he grit his teeth.

The Herald laughed, a light tinkling thing that echoed off the stone walls, and tapped her fingers on the map. “Alright, very funny Sera. The servants are doing their best with what they've got. Now, Leliana, you said you had information about the missing Wardens. Oh! And Halamshiral, right?” With a light but firm hand, the young mage redirected their attention to the matters at hand.

The Herald, _Trevelyan_ he reminded himself, had seemed different since she miraculously returned from the ruins of Haven. Solas had spent the entire night healing her wounds, resetting her fractured bones and knitting her skin back together. Deep purple bruises, tinged yellow at the edges, still wrapped around her wrists. Most notable was the fact that she no longer hid her glowing hand underneath gloves. The anchor shone brightly, flickering against her skin as she pointed out locations on the map. Solas watched, silent, as the young woman seemed to settle comfortably into her role as leader.

His mind wandered to Mouse and the scars she now bore. His stomach roiled, gurgling as guilt sunk into his flesh. The burns wrapped over her neck and mottled the skin of one ear. Her hair, the safety net she hid behind, was now cut close to her scalp by the Tranquil who carried her to safety. Solas set his jaw and closed his eyes. It might as well as have been his own hand that set the flames on her skin. He had been foolish, weak, to believe that any plan of his would go smoothly. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many possibilities he considered, he still failed. Failure, it seemed, was as much a part of his being as the very magic that coursed through his veins. Heat prickled at the back of his neck, a drop of sweat trailing down his ear and disappearing below his tunic.

He would continue on. He had to. His agents worked tirelessly, exploring Thedas on his orders. They scoured ruins and unearthed the artifacts he tasked them to find. They passed along information in coded script. They worked in the shadows. Manipulating. Gathering what they could. Taking back what was rightfully theirs. They were not the People he knew, no, but they could be. The potential he saw in them spurred him on. Their castles were gone but the foundations remained. They would dig their kingdom out from beneath the rubble and build it back up with broken bricks.  He would rip apart the sky, correct the mistakes he made lifetimes ago and set things right. This was his plan. He would continue on and he would be victorious.

“This plan. Are you sure it will work?” Someone asked but Solas was unsure who. He struggled to focus, so preoccupied in his own wallowing that he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing at that exact moment. Then, to his own surprise, he realized that he was the one who had spoken.

The Herald sighed, a marker shaped like an elongated pyramid dangled from her fingers as she leaned back away from the open map. She tossed it across the map with a flick of her wrist. It landed on its base on the western edge of the map.

“It has to,” she replied grimly.

*

Despite all that he has seen, Solas thought, it was still an awe-inspiring sight to watch a leader rise from the ashes of near annihilation. They crowned Trevelyan, metaphorically of course, the Inquisitor in front of a hobbled yet zealous crowd. They cheered and hope filled the air as the new Inquisitor proclaimed her duty to their cause. The people cried aloud in a singular voice. A cry for the departed. A cry for vengeance. The sound of the defeated pulling themselves up from the dirt and dusting themselves off.

Solas felt a surge of something indescribable pound in his chest as he watched the small human woman hold the sword of the Inquisition in the air. Her arm shook with strain, unused to holding such a heavy burden, but she stood determined. Failure was no longer an option.

He would see to their victory, Solas swore to himself, if only for their world to know peace before he brought it down around them in flames.

*

“Ama.”

Mouse paused, then readjusted her grip on her staff. “To protect.”

They stood in a far off corner of the courtyard near the surprisingly intact gazebo and the barren garden. The sky was dark and voices drifted in and out from the halls that surrounded them. Mouse paced in a small meandering path with her staff in hand, a worn wooden thing that she had managed to keep with her through her long journey from Kirkwall. Solas had asked her to meet him there when night fell, away from the rotunda to give them both privacy and a safe place to practice magic. He shuddered to think of the damage that a misfired spell would cause in the already tattered walls of Skyhold.

“Correct. Also 'to keep'. To take something given freely.” He followed behind her, watching as she tapped her fingers against her staff with a nervous tic.

It had been Mouse's idea to combine her magic training with Elvhen lessons. She had been patiently imploring him to teach her ever since they had first met and he had kept putting it off. Finally, when he had no more excuses to give her, he gave in and agreed. He found her grasp on the language rudimentary although he admitted to himself that he was delighted that she was eager to learn. She knew her numbers well enough and a few basic phrases but her vocabulary was severely lacking. So, Solas accommodating her desire to learn Elvhen with her need to master her magic, started from the beginning.

He circled around her, pushing at her shoulders to correct her posture. The Circle had taught her bad habits and if he was to teach her to master manipulation of the Veil, he had to fix these odd quirks. Currently, Mouse had the strangest way of holding her body when she cast. She curled into herself as if to hide, pushing her magic away from her in a manner that suggested she was ashamed of what she had done. Solas found it both amusing and difficult to watch.

As soon as he removed his hand Mouse drooped, bending her back to slouch again. Solas pressed his hand back between her shoulders firmly. “Stand straight. Amem.”

He moved to her front and watched as she shifted from one foot to the other. She licked her lips as she looked nervously from side to side. She leaned away from him with a tiny, almost imperceptible wavering that made him sigh in annoyance. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands and pushed them back, then grasped her chin in his fingers and tilted it up so she was looking straight at him.

Mouse tried to avoid his eyes, looking at everything else around them _but_ him. She pressed her staff to her chest and tried to pull away but Solas tightened his grip on her chin. 

“Protected. Kept,” she replied finally. 

“Again, correct. Eyes up and ahead. Do not be afraid. How do you know if you hit your target if you are looking at the ground? _Always_ keep your eyes on your target.” He paused, then added softly, “Amelan.”

Mouse looked up at him through her eyelashes and Solas felt her relax in his touch. He rubbed her chin between his fingers. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it until the scab ripped open and red bloomed under her bite. Solas dragged his thumb across her mouth, pulling her lip out before she opened the wound any further.

Mouse stepped back and Solas dropped his hand back to his side. He admonished himself silently as he watched a flurry of emotions flicker across her face. She lifted a hand to her bleeding lip and wiped away the blood that dripped onto her chin. She examined her bloodied fingers curiously before looking back up at the man before her. A wary smile crossed her face.

“Protector. Guardian.”

Solas stood straight and returned her smile. “Correct, lethal'lan.” He moved away, a part of him mourning the space that grew between them, and indicated his head toward a small, dry-looking bush that stood a clear distance away from anything else in the courtyard. "That is your target. Your training begins now." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to thank everyone who has read, commented, and given kudos so far. <3


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse is awkward and Solas is in denial because he is a dumb, smug bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was actually bored enough to boot up the game and fuss around with the character creator to make an in-game version of [mouse](https://66.media.tumblr.com/38b9a67dbb4b0c23b5ba60e91629f7ef/tumblr_pugojhIDLT1vyx63lo2_540.jpg) and [trevelyan](https://66.media.tumblr.com/81d95de0a2e8e43461d7d1e3363436bf/tumblr_pugojhIDLT1vyx63lo1_540.jpg). obviously, there are some major differences that i couldn't replicate with my console version but it's close enough. mouse's burn scars, of course, and darker eyes. trevelyan has longer, curlier hair in the story. anyway, it doesn't really matter. you can picture them however you'd like.

In between yellowed pages, Mouse hides a wealth of information for him to find. Just a month into her post as a librarian in Skyhold, letters from Solas's other agents began to arrive in the strangest ways. Mouse had to give credit where credit was due: they certainly were creative. A rolled-up parchment tucked into the hollow hilt of a kitchen knife. A letter folded ornately and sewn into the hem of a robe. A label pasted on the bottom of a barrel of ale from Denerim, the writing barely noticeable until a fire spell is held over the faded script. Their locations were carefully spelled out for her to find in between banal letters from her “cousin” in Starkhaven. Mouse was pretty sure she had no actual surviving family but Leliana's spies didn't need to know that. She knew when her letters were intercepted and read. They didn't even bother to hide it: the wax seal would be cut open neatly and then re-sealed with the emblem of the Inquisition. A sword jutting out from an eye radiating in the holy fire of Andraste peered up at her and dared her to complain. What was privacy when the whole world was ending around you?

She rewrote the messages in her own hand before disposing of the letters by tossing them into a nearby fireplace. Her writing followed a different code, one she had created with Solas that only they understood. She buried the information in the titles of books that didn't exist or, if they did exist, were so completely innocuous that anyone who read her notes would think that she held a particular zeal for the history of Ferelden.

She didn't but, again, they didn't need to know that.

Mouse scribbled the last few words down quickly and, barely waiting for the ink to dry, folded the parchment and tucked it into the pages of a book on the Grey Wardens. She held the book to her chest, fingers curled tightly over the edges, as she traipsed down the stairwell to the rotunda below.

Her heart began to feel light again now that things were returning to a sort of normal. The Herald – _no, the Inquisitor_ she corrected herself – went off on missions, taking with her a rotating cadre that occasionally included Solas. Mouse had to admit it was off-putting when he left and she found herself floundering on what to do when she spent her free time alone. She continued to practice the methods Solas had begun teaching her. Small things, _just to start with_ he promised, like how to hold her staff and keeping herself alert to her surroundings. How to clear the area of sympathetic magic after she cast. It felt strange to re-learn the basics but she knew her magic skills were greatly wanting in improvement.

As she down the stairs, two voices drifted from the open archway that led to the rotunda.

“So there is a difference between spirits and demons? That's not what we were taught in the Circle.”

A low chuckle. The shuffle of papers and the closing of a book.

“To be fair, Inquisitor, there is a lot they don't teach you in the Circle.”

Mouse paused, her foot hovering above the final step as she eavesdropped. The Inquisitor and Solas continued to talk amiably, their conversation turning to the Circles and the curriculum taught there. The Inquisitor defended her education but Solas calmly poked holes through her weak excuses. Mouse hesitated for a moment, peeking over the archway at the two figures. Solas sat on his chair pushed away from his desk, his hands clasped over his stomach with his legs crossed at the ankle and outstretched in front of him. The Inquisitor was perched on the sofa on the other side of the room, her hands grasping the edge of her seat as she leaned forward. Her shoulders were relaxed despite the tension in her hands and her dark curls bounced as she shook her head in response to something Solas had said. They, in Mouse's opinion, were having a friendly but passionate debate.

“I think they did a fine job of instructing so many, seeing as we all had different skill levels and – oh!” The Inquisitor stood up swiftly and approached the spot where Mouse had hidden herself. She peered around the archway and locked eyes with the nervous elven mage. Her thin, groomed eyebrows rose in surprise. “Excuse me, is there something you need?”

Mouse slouched, drooping her shoulders forward to make herself appear smaller. Her fingers dug into the hardcover of the book she pressed tightly to her chest. “No, I just – a book, messere. For Solas.” The Inquisitor smiled and it lit up her entire face, her blue eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the archway. Mouse felt herself shrink even smaller. The aura around the human's hand glowed brighter and it took all her strength not to close her eyes. Wrong she looked _wrong_.

“I see! I can give it to him.” She reached out for the book but Mouse only held on to it tighter.

“Inquisitor, who is – ah, Mouse. Is that the book I requested?” Solas joined them in the alcove and Mouse felt like the walls were closing in around her. She shuffled on her feet and dropped her gaze to the floor. She nodded rapidly and held it out for him to take. His fingers brushed against hers for only a moment but it was enough to cause her face to turn a distinct shade of red. He reached out and pulled Mouse into the rotunda, wrapping his arm around her waist to rest his hand on her lower back.

“I take that I shall find what I need in this text?” He asked quietly, dipping his lips dangerously close to her ear.

Mouse shook her head, still keeping her chin tucked into her neck. His hand on her back felt like a burning beacon and the heat from his touch melted through her clothes. Solas drummed his fingers on the spine of the book as he stared down at the title with a soft smile. The Inquisitor lingered for a moment in the archway, watching the two elves with an imperceptible expression on her face. Silently, she moved back to the sofa and lowered herself to sit.

“What is the book about, Solas?”

Solas pulled away from Mouse to sit back down at his desk. He hummed and flipped through the pages with a casual glance at the words within. “The Grey Wardens. I'm afraid my knowledge on the order is quite lacking.” When he reached the page where Mouse had tucked her letter, he bent the top corner of the page down before continuing on browsing the book.

Mouse stood awkwardly between the sofa and the desk. She shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes flickering between the other woman and Solas.

“They are so secretive I'm surprised a whole book could be written about them,” the Inquisitor remarked cheerfully. Her voice was chipper but her body language remained tense. She looked up at Mouse with a curious aside glance before focusing her attention back on Solas.

“It is merely a history of their public deeds. It doesn't spill their secrets.” Mouse bit back her tongue when she realized she had just responded out loud. She dug a hand into the scarf tied around her neck and pulled at the fabric anxiously. “It's nearly impossible to read more in-depth into the Wardens unless you become one, unfortunately.” She gave the Inquisitor a small, strained smile.

“Oh, I see.” The Inquisitor clasped her hands in her lap and returned Mouse's awkward smile with a bright one of her own. “Is your name _really_ Mouse?” 

Mouse replied in a muffled affirmative as she buried her chin deeper into her scarf. The Inquisitor narrowed her eyes but her smile remained firmly planted on her face. "You're a mage, aren't you? I think Solas mentioned you. Were you in a Circle? I was at Ostwick."

Mouse backed away, easing her way toward the archway and the stairwell that laid behind it. "Anyway, Solas, um, Inquisitor. I just came to drop that - the book - off." She muttered a quick farewell, nearly tripping over her own feet as she hurried back to the library before the Inquisitor asked her any more questions.

“Did I say something wrong?” The Inquisitor queried to Solas, slightly bewildered at the girl's whiplash change in mood. Solas studied the empty archway, a strange little twist curling the corners of his mouth.

*

Things, Solas thought, were starting to go right again. Reading over Mouse's letter, he was reassured that his agents were finding continued success in their assignments. He ran his thumb over her thin, angled script. Small dots of smeared ink marked the parchment on opposite ends, bleeding over where she folded it too quickly before the ink dried. She was eager to get this note to him even though the information within was not in any way time-sensitive.

He leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in the palm of his free hand. He had to admit that her feelings for him were becoming abundantly clear. She rarely spoke to anyone who wasn't tranquil or him and, when she did speak to him, she would blush at the drop of a hat. During their training sessions, her face would turn so red that it became a bit worrying. Her reaction to him spending time with the Inquisitor made him even more sure that the young elven woman was nursing a growing infatuation for him.

It presented a problem that he wasn't sure he knew how to deal with. He was no stranger to being the object of someone's affection but it had been so long that he felt that he was, in no uncertain terms, _rusty_ when dealing with matters of the heart.

He would discourage her, of course, but he had to do it delicately. Mouse wasn't a fragile flower, one who would wilt the moment he refused to return her feelings, but he did not want to cause her any undue harm. He had already injured her enough. Solas dropped the hand holding her letter onto his lap, oblivious that he was still tracing her words with his fingers.

No, he would set her straight. Reaffirm that their relationship was a professional one. He was training her in a specialization of magic that was very dear to him and she had become one of his most invaluable agents. Her enthusiasm for his cause was one that he had yet to find in another. Not since Felassan – he stopped himself from finishing that thought. He did not want to think of that name again. Not yet.

Redirection. Back to the matter at hand. Perhaps they could be friends at some point. Maybe, if she began to show promise in rift magic, they could have a sort of mentor/protege relationship. He would train her, teach her Elvhen, and she would stay by his side as a loyal comrade. A warm little thought wriggled in his head at the idea of her staying by his side.

The thought bounced around his skull and took on a life of its own. Mouse by his side as he tears down the veil. Mouse, always within arms reach. What an idiotic, self-indulgent little thought. His mouse. Emma moludh. His.

He tightened his grip on the letter in his lap, his fingers crushing the paper as he cursed himself inwardly. Perhaps, he thought as he crumpled the parchment into a wrinkled ball, he would say nothing at all.

*

She woke to silence and the stench of death. An arm draped over her torso, limp and cold as it laid on her stomach. She moved it aside, grasping its flesh with trembling fingers. Her hands were wet. Slippery. It spread from her fingertips to her palms, smeared across her forearms where her sleeves had been rolled up, and her skin was clammy where it touched.

She felt drawn, squeezed out, and rest her head back against the floor. She'd deal with this later. She'd deal with this – just go to sleep. Sleep felt like a good idea.

 _Go. Go now_ , said a voice.

She closed her eyes. Sleep was good. Sleep was safe.

 _GO NOW_ , repeated the voice.

As if pulled like a puppet by the strings, she stood. She moved her feet and stepped over the still bodies that littered the floor. She kept her eyes up, not daring to look at their faces. She knew – she knew them. They had names but right now she couldn't remember anything, _feel_ anything, besides the feeling of cold that permeated all the way down to her bones.

A hallway. Then a door. A set of stairs that drew her farther away from the bodies. Too many doors. Too many quiet hallways. Another door. The last and biggest one. She hesitated as she gripped the knob with both hands.

She looked down at her robes, confused to find them as damp as the rest of her. She was red all over. So very, very red. It sunk into the fabric and made it gleam with a sickly shine.

She shivered and stepped outside into the waiting sun.

*

Mouse fingered the mottled skin of her ear absentmindedly, running her nail over the grooves that marred the long pointed lobe. Solas, seemingly feeling bad for her earlier awkward encounter with the Inquisitor, invited Mouse to keep him company as he worked on his paintings. The open book in her lap laid forgotten as she single-mindedly fussed with her raw skin. It didn't hurt but felt strange to touch, almost like the rough hide of a bronto. Solas sat at his desk, opened jars of pigment and oils scattered over the surface. He held his palette in one hand and a thin handled brush in the other.

She drug her nail over the skin again, repeating the same path she had already taken moments before. This time, however, the sharp edge of her nail tugged on a gnarled lump of scar tissue on the tip of her ear, causing her to cry out in pain. Taken aback by her sudden outburst, Solas dropped his paintbrush onto the floor and watched wearily as it rolled away beneath his desk.

“Sorry, I just scratched too hard.”

He furrowed his brow, flicking a glance at the reddened skin of her ear. Mouse dipped her head down low, hiding her face as she clasped a hand over her exposed ear.

“Mouse.”

She gawked at him through her eyelashes, her hand still firmly clutching the side of her head.

Solas beckoned her with an outstretched palm. He sat down on the rotunda floor with crossed legs, setting his paint palette down beside him.

“Sit, let me show you something.”

Mouse closed her book and moved from the couch to where Solas sat waiting for her. In a halting, jerky motion, Mouse kneeled down to tuck her legs beneath her as she sat facing him from a carefully measured distance. Solas patted the floor directly in front of him to urge her to move closer. She obliged, faltering slightly as she scooted forward on her bottom to close the space between them. He held out a hand to stop her as her knee bumped into his.

“Close your eyes.”

With some hesitation, she closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. With no visual stimulation, Mouse focused in on the sound of fabric moving, then a soft wet noise as something was stirred. She felt the air around her head shift as Solas moved closer.

“Solas what are you –“ Her eyes opened wide as she felt something cold and wet being smeared over the lobe of her scarred ear. Mouse leaned back, her hand flying to her face to remove the offending sensation. “ _Hey!_ That's cold!”

“Ir abelas, lethal'lan. I did not think about the temperature.” Solas looked at her with a mischievous grin before tilting his head as he regarded what he had done to her ear. His grin softened and he dipped his hand into the palette at his side. “Sit still.”

Mouse inhaled and felt her heart pound wildly in her chest as she observed as he raised his hand to her ear. With one extended finger, he spread the substance over the edge of her ear until he was satisfied that it was covered. He pulled away, narrowing his eyes as he took in his work, then picked up more paint to cover her other ear.

“The Elvhen painted their skin during times of celebration. They used gold paint to highlight the beauty of their ears.”

She looked down at the paint covering his fingertips. It shone like molten metal as he swirled it around, gathering it up to spread on her skin. Mouse snorted and looked away, her eyes starting to water as he touched her again. Her skin burned under his ministrations, blood rushing to the surface as she felt cowed by his undivided attention.

“Mine aren't beautiful. They weren't much before but now...now one is ugly." She spat out the word _ugly_ bitterly like just saying it coated her tongue in bile.

Solas pulled away abruptly and Mouse felt colder at the loss of his touch.

"No. It is not ugly. It marks you as a survivor.” He turned, lifting his clean hand to rummage for something on top of his desk. His hand searched blindly for a few minutes he found the item he was looking for and pulled it off the desk He held it to his chest, hiding it behind his long elegant fingers. Mouse tried to glimpse a peak at the object and saw that it was a wooden frame no bigger than his palm.

He flipped the frame over, revealing a small mirror embedded in the wood. Mouse tried to turn away from her reflection but Solas reached out with his paint-coated hand and pulled her back.

“Look at how the light reflects from the texture your skin, Mouse.” He angled the mirror so she could see her ears. Her skin glimmered under the light, the planes of her earlobes gilded like a precious heirloom. “Your ear is not ruined, emma moludh. Nothing about you is _ugly_."

Solas held out the mirror for her to take and she grasped it with trembling hands. She moved her head around, watching the light bounce off the paint as she tilted her head from one side to the other. Slowly, she took one finger and touched the still wet paint on her scarred ear. Pulling it away to examine it, she was in awe of how her skin glowed. For the briefest moment, she felt as if she burned as brightly as Solas did.

Mouse chewed on her bottom lip and peered at Solas shyly.

“Can I paint your ears?” The wet paint shimmered as she wiggled her finger at him playfully. With a laugh, Solas tilted his head to give her access to his ear.

“Of course.”

Leaning in close to him, Mouse dipped her finger into paint that remained on his palette and lifted her coated finger up to his ear. In short, tentative strokes she smudged his ears in gold. She worked with meticulous precision, covering him in the same color he had anointed her with. She moved with quiet devotion as she leaned in so close he could smell the scent of old books and worn leather that rose from her skin. Solas contemplated her face, so focused on him yet blissfully unaware of the conflict that her touch ignited in his chest. He could hardly breathe and tried to remain as still as possible as she continued her work.

“Will you promise me something, Mouse?” Solas's voice was husky, tinged with something that neither of them wanted to name. Mouse froze, pulling away from him slightly to look him in the eye. “Promise me you will no longer refer to yourself as ugly.”

Mouse dropped her hand to her thigh, smearing paint as she wiped it thoughtlessly across her thigh. “I- I promise.”

*

“He paints her gold and it nearly makes her forget about the green in her eyes. It is there, waiting, and it is getting harder to push it away.”

Solas stiffened, his back ramrod straight, as he stopped his path from the rotunda to the main hall. His hands stilled as he closed his fingers around a crumpled up rag. The white fabric was stained in a multitude of colors but the dried auric paint stood out the most. “Cole?”

“Red green gold.” Cole smiles shyly and plays with a loose string hanging from his shirt sleeve. “She wants you to touch her again.”

With a sigh, Solas clenched the rag in one hand and rubbed across his forehead with the other. He had not spoken to Mouse since their little painting activity a few days before. Part of him wanted to ignore what happened, forget the way his stomach fluttered when she touched him. He kept these thoughts hidden from the curious spirit, uneager to share the feelings that disturbed him.

“Cole, please don't invade her thoughts like that.”

“I am sorry. They are loud.” He exhales, then quietly adds: “She wishes she dreamt of you instead of the wolf.”

Solas creases his brow and sets his lips into a thin line. Cole continues, his voice breathless as he stares blankly ahead.

“He knocks at the door but his patience is waning. He will have her if you do not.”

The young man blinks then tosses his head from side to side like a water-logged mabari shaking itself dry. He dragged a hand across the back of his neck and appears lost like he suddenly had forgotten where he was.

“Solas? Can you still see me?”

Solas ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach. He grasps his hands behind his back to stop them from clenching into fists.

“Yes, Cole. I can.”

Cole tenses, then relaxes his shoulders. He looks around the cavernous room, squinting at the light pouring in from the tall windows. Colors blossomed on the walls, watercolor thrown by the stained-glass that was freshly cleaned by elven servants that very morning.

“Good. I was – did I say something?” 

Solas watches the animated light shift slightly over the stone walls as a wind outside shook the glass panels in their lead mounted frames. He found himself thinking of the way the light glinted in the gold of Mouse's painted ears and the pink that rose in her cheeks when he touched her. He thinks of her feather-light strokes spreading paint on his ears. Her fingertips dipped in gold, touching him with a reverence that he did not deserve.

“No, Cole. You did not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry y'all there will be no love triangles i promise. just some tension. i made up the whole ear painting thing because i had a weird dream about it and thought it was kind of lovely.
> 
> quick elvhen translations:  
> Ir abelas, lethal'lan - "I am sorry, friend."  
> emma moludh - my "mousette" / my little mouse. affectionate term.


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad memories, bad dreams, and Orlesian party planning.

They've got to be as small as possible, tucked in between the wooden shelves of heavy books, and quiet too. Mouse holds her tightly, her arms coiled around the other girl's shoulders.

Catriona. Tight black curls that coil around her head in a halo. Sweet Catriona, barely out of girlhood, with the sun shining on her forehead. Mouse squeezes the fabric of her robes under her fingers, her nails biting into the stitches and pulling the threads.

They huddle, legs in a tangle, and Mouse pulls Catriona into her lap. The Tranquil girl doesn't know why they're hiding but she knows that Mouse told her to be quiet and she does as she's told. She followed, obedient without a question as to why the other girl is trembling. Catriona, daughter of a Rivaini sailor and a seamstress from Kirkwall, was obedient since the day they burnt the sun on her face.

Footsteps. One set, then another. Heavy metal boots that clink with each step. Feet that cannot sneak up on you but, then again, they don't need to. They announce their presence, left then right, and push you into a corner you cannot escape from.

Mouse chews her bottom lip, bursting the thin skin with her sharp canines and sending a thin rivet of blood down her chin. Catriona silently wipes it away, the blood gleaming bright red on her dusky skin.

The day had started as every other day did. Mouse found a pile of abandoned books and got to work re-shelving them, pulling Catriona along with her for company. Then, as she pushed a book on shape-shifting back into its original place, the whole building shook and the sky outside the window turned red. The glass in the window frames quivered and every piece of furniture in the library moved slightly to the left.

Then the Templars came with their swords at hand and their helmets hiding their faces. Mouse heard them in the hall; cries that were quickly silenced with the sound of a sword cutting the breath from their lungs. Bodies fell, one after another, and she felt sweat prick her neck. She grabbed Catriona, the Tranquil girl not even eliciting a sound of surprise at being taken from her task, and hid behind a tall shelf in the corner of the library. There they sat, entwined in each other, as the footsteps grew closer.

Catriona stared blankly ahead, hazel eyes looking from Mouse to the books on the shelf, and she reached out a hand to push a book back into place. Mouse opened her mouth and grabbed Catriona by the wrist, wrapping her fingers around so tightly that she would surely leave a bruise, then pulled the girl's hand back.

“ _No -”_

Mouse grimaced and moved to bury her head in Catriona's shoulder. The Tranquil girl dropped her hands to her lap, her eyes still held on the book she wanted to move. Mouse bit back a sob and rocked her head from side to side. Tears filled her eyes as she heard metal on stone change directions, stepping quickly toward their hiding spot.

*

Mouse clung close to the walls of the main hall of Skyhold, curious as a flurry of activity swarmed the great room. Holding a book tight to her chest (a history of the Orlesian Chantry, a rather dry read) she pressed her back to the stone wall near the fireplace as servants raced by with arms full of heavy leather bags and boxes tied with ribbon. The air is thin, humming, and Mouse notes with a sigh the green fog that hangs like cobwebs in the high corners of the room. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs lightly.

“They're heading out to Halamshiral tomorrow.”

Mouse stiffened, her shoulders rolling upward over the stone as she turned to stare at the dwarf who now stood beside her.

“Oh?” Her grip on the book tightened _(In -3 Ancient, Kordillus Drakon I became the first emperor of Orlais and eventually the founder of the Chantry. His influence on the practices of the contemporary Orlesian Chantry can be seen...)_

Varric grinned while dropping a stack of letters on top of the rough-hewn wooden table.“Yeah. You know, they say it's not a true Orlesian fete until old alliances are broken, new ones are formed, and...” He dropped into a nearby chair and propped his chin on one fist. “They serve ham that tastes distinctly of despair.”

“How...how do they do that?” Mouse felt the corners of her mouth twitch at the thought.

“Who knows. I'm from Kirkwall. We preferred our meat jellied.” The dwarf snorted and leaned back to observe the chaos around them. Mouse inhaled deeply through her nose and looked away, her fingers beginning to sweat against the leather binding. Varric didn't know, no one else did except for Solas and Dorian, and Mouse felt a small sort of panic grow in her chest. _(The Grand Cathedral, located in the heart of Val Royeaux, is the certainly the crown jewel of the Chantry. It's awe-inspiring spires...)_

“And Fereldens prefer theirs cooked until gray.”

Varric shifted in his seat to gaze up at the newcomer. “Chuckles, nice of you to join us.” Satisfied that he was welcoming enough, he turned back and watched with a wry smile as two masked men struggled with a heavy wooden trunk.

“Master Tethras...” Solas tipped his head in acknowledgment, looking from the seated dwarf to where Mouse stood against the wall. “Mouse.”

Mouse resisted the urge to chew on her lips. Instead, she found herself mentally naming off the names of Orlesian martyrs. A lot of them, she thought with a derisive scowl, were named Marie Therese. At least 30 at her last count. Solas stood at the open doorway to the rotunda, leaning one shoulder on the frame. His face was impassive, his mouth relaxed.

“I see our dear Inquisitor is only taking a certain _kind_ of guest with her for the ball.”

Mouse glanced at him with a questioning frown. Solas shrugged, his eyes still gazing around the room from person to person.

“After deliberations with Ambassador Montilyet and Leliana, it seems the Inquisitor has decided that it would be best if only human members of the Inquisition attended the Winter Palace.”

Mouse felt a knot form in her stomach. She rubbed a finger on the embossed letters trailing down the spine of the book she still held. “Well, I can't say I'm surprised,” she replied quickly under her breath.

Varric made a small, non-committal sound. He began to reach forward for the stack of papers he had abandoned earlier.

“I can't say I am at odds with her decision,” Solas continued. “The Inquisition is still seen as a radical fringe group that has somehow managed to gain influence. Taking Cassandra, Vivienne, and Blackwall would reassure our detractors that we aren't entirely made of up savage elves and Qunari, apostates, and -”

“Wisecracking dwarves?” Varric snorted as he tossed a letter into the fire. The fire flickered then settled as the paper turned to ash. “Vivienne I get. Cassandra and Blackwall...well. I just hope they keep them away from sharp objects. If you'll excuse me, I've got to see a Qunari about a drink.”

Varric stood, the letters that remained clasped tightly in his hands, as he rose to exit. He nodded to Gatsi, the dwarf who worked on the mosaic tiles the Inquisitor had found, and ambled out of the large doorway with a pronounced swagger. Mouse rose on eyebrow then turned to Solas with a small smile.

“Do you agree with the Inquisitor, Solas?”

“Hmm. As much as I wish that I could find fault with it, I understand her choices. Cassandra, although far removed, is Navarran royalty. Vivienne is well known and respected in Orlais. Blackwall is a member of the Wardens, an organization that still commands respect in some circles. If she is to defend her position and correctly play the Game, the Inquisitor will need to choose her companions wisely.”

Mouse dropped her hands to her stomach, the book in her hand now resting idly on her hip. She wiggled her eyebrows and tipped her chin down to eye Solas with an exaggerated glare. “Could you imagine the looks on their faces if she showed up with Iron Bull, Sera, and you?”

Solas chuckled, a soft snort escaping his nose as he shook his head with amusement. “Heads would roll, emma moludh.”

He reached out, slipping a hand across her lower back, and guided her into the rotunda. Mouse felt herself begin to rename the martyrs. Her cheeks grew hot and she dropped the book onto the top of Solas' desk in an inelegant toss.

_Marie Therese the Lesser, Marie Therese the Unwavering, Marie Therese the Elder..._

She stepped away, distancing herself from his familiar touch. Mouse chewed on her bottom lip, despite all of the Orlesian martyrs she rattled off in her brain, and struggled to find something else to talk about. The library was eerily quiet as most of the patrons were off busying themselves with aiding the Inquisitor packing for Halamshiral. Eoin was folding silk scarves for Madame de Fer, his large hands oddly delicate as he slipped each one into her travel trunk. Even Dorian was off somewhere else, his normal alcove empty but for the tottering stacks of books he left behind.

“Solas – you – you mentioned before that even before all of -” she stopped and waved her hand around in an attempt to convey the world around them. “Society was segregated. The Elvhen made slaves of their own people.”

Solas parked himself on the corner of his desk, his long legs stretched and crossed at the ankles with his hands splayed out on his thighs. Mouse bounced nervously on the balls of her feet, urging herself to look anywhere else, _anywhere_ , that wasn't his elegant fingers spread so wide on the hard planes of his thighs. Her mouth grew dry as she settled on the tall imposing figure painted in black on the wall.

“Yes, that is correct.” His voice was calm but edged with wariness. His mouth tightened into a thin line, the corners sinking into his cheeks.

“How is _that_ any better than now?” Her words took on a rounded hint of bitterness as she continued to avoid looking at him.

The figure on the wall loomed ahead. _Change the subject,_ it begged her.

“It wasn't. I tried to free them and in doing so doomed my people.” Mouse peered out from the corner of her eyes to see him drop his head slightly, his eyes planted firmly on the floor beneath his feet. His hands gripped his thighs, the knuckles bone-white against his freckled skin. The aura around him swarmed, licked at the curve of his shoulders and trailed down the expanse of his back. Mouse could have choked on her tongue as her mouth grew drier. For reasons beyond her and her own logic, she continued prodding him.

“Tearing down the Veil won't bring them back, will it?”

Fingers bend, tense, then relax over the fabric of his trousers. Solas looks up, his eyes shining so bright that for a moment Mouse swears she sees smoke curling in the corners.

“No. No, it will not. I am not trying to bring them back. There are few who linger still but I cannot guarantee they will go along quietly with what I have planned.”

“Then why do it at all?” Her voice was small but sharp, her face turned away toward the wall. He jerked back slightly, wincing as if he had been pricked by a needle.

Solas reached out for the book she left on his desk. He held it in one hand, the other sliding back the cover and trailing over the pebbled leather. He stroked the paper silently, his fingertips running over the words as if he could read them by touch alone.

“I have seen what has become of the people. How they have been conquered. Left to fester in deplorable conditions.” He closes the book with a loud _thwump_ that echoes off the wall. “The Dalish try, I will concede to that, but they have perverted their history to something that is a mere shadow of itself. I cannot leave this place until I have tried to fix what I have done.”

Solas placed the book back on the desk and examined the half-painted mural behind the scaffolding with a casual glance. “I will make amends or I will die trying. Most likely both.”

Mouse nods, inhaling as she fidgets with the scarf around her neck, and finds her tongue too heavy to form a response.

*

His eyes scan the page once, then twice, before giving up and closing the dull book he holds in his hands. With a sigh, Solas places it beside the whispering shard on his desk. He runs a hand over the surface of the shard, his fingers digging into the uneven indentations before placing his hand flat on the wooden desktop.

The letter tucked into the book held some victories (more ruins found, more artifacts reclaimed) and some losses (Briala still maintaining her stranglehold on the eluvians). Solas tipped his head back, resting the groove of his skull on the back of the chair. A red-tipped crow flew from one side of the banister to the other, clicking its tongue as it landed with the shake of its inky feathers.

His lessons were seemingly not going one direction or the other. Indeed, Mouse's magic was improving. She had already mastered veil strikes and was well on her way to improving her overall manipulation of the Veil. She could probably join in a battle and handle herself well enough.

Her sight, he thought as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, was getting worse. She grabbed at objects that weren't there and ran into things that were. Heard whispers ducking around corners when no living person could be found nearby. She smiled, shook her head, and waved off his concerns. Sometimes Mouse stared out into nothing, her dark eyes clouded over, and before he could even posit a question to ask her, she blinked and returned to normal.

Cole, despite his best efforts, was of little help. Taking a rare visit to the tavern, Solas lingered in the small space on the top floor that Cole had claimed as his own. The spirit boy slouched his shoulders, tucking his head beneath his wide hat, and fingered the daggers at his side in a nervous tic.

“I try to help but when I do -” He gasps, back shooting up ramrod straight, before exhaling shakily and relaxing into a low crouch. His blue eyes flare wide under the brim of his hat. “He won't let me.”

Solas gripped his hands together, nails digging into the skin until they left crescent-shaped indentations on his knuckles.

“Cole, who is he?”

The spirit doesn't answer but instead rocks gently on his heels, swaying to the song that drifted from the bottom floor of the Herald's Rest. His fingers curl over the brim of his hat, pulling the fabric down so it covers his face in shadow. Cole hums then taps his fingers in a cascading wave across his hat.

“He's a wolf at the door. Waiting watching with white teeth. She made a promise. He will take what he is owed.” Cole pauses, fingers still dancing on the brim. The minstrel sings, starting a new song, and he hums along tunelessly. “He knows.”

Solas leaned against the banister and observed the tavern below. Varric sat, mug in hand, drinking alongside the Iron Bull and his Chargers. The dwarf's mouth was twisted in a wry smile, he said something that elicited a round of cheers and bawdy laughter from the mercenaries seated around him. Sera scrambled out from beneath the table and snatched a roll of bread before disappearing again.

“Tell me about _him_ , Cole.”

Cole, still perched awkwardly on his heels, waddles over to the railing and sticks his arms through the wide bars. He spreads his fingers wide, hooking his thumbs in one another, and moves his hands in the imitation of a bird.

“He won't let me.”

The wings of the bird flap, coasting on a pretend breeze, and then crumple together as Cole clenches his hands into a tight fist.

“Solas, he won't let me.”

*

Mouse finds herself thinking about gold paint a lot lately. How it's used to infer some form of holiness or incomprehensible wealth in the dusty portraits that hang on the walls. How it chips off said portraits when a servant wipes the canvas for dust too roughly. There's one by the kitchens, near a large hole in the wall, where the subject is dripping in gold from her heavy head-dress to her foiled gown. Even her eyes are tinted gold and she looks down her pointed nose at the viewer as if she merely allowed them to gaze upon her glorious person. Mouse hates this portrait the most and takes small pleasure in digging her nails underneath the flaking paint, scratching off the shine with her dirty hands. She gathers the flakes in her pocket and later spreads them out over the nightstand in her small single room. They glower at her and glow in the dim light.

Mainly she finds herself thinking of her ears, the normal one, and the ug – no, _scarred_ , not _ugly_ she reminds herself – coated in gold from tip to the soft fleshy lobe. Thinks about the brushing of masculine hands over the parts of her she now hates the most. She wants to hide from these happy thoughts, keep them away from the one who prowls her dreams. He waits with bated breath, eager to dine on what little happiness she feels. He waits and licks his lips.

*

Mouse tip-toes around the stack of books left haphazardly on the floor, edging her way around the alcove Dorian usually resided in to reach for a book on the top shelf. Another hand passed above her head and grabbed the book instead. Mouse froze and squished her body close to the wall with her arm still gawkily outstretched.

"You disappeared after our talk this afternoon. Are you alright, lethallan?"

Mouse turned and pressed her back against the bookshelf then clasped her hands in front of her chest. She kept her eyes carefully trained on the jawbone necklace Solas wore around his neck. "I'm fine. I - nothing. I shouldn't have brought up...I shouldn't have said what I said earlier." She fidgeted, wringing her hands anxiously as she avoided eye contact.

Solas sighed and placed a hand on top of her squirming hands before separating them to hold one in his palm. His hand dwarfed her own as he closed his fingers over her knuckles.

"I am not angry at you. I enjoy our talks. I am not so egotistical that I cannot be challenged over my opinions." 

He squeezed then released his grip on her hand. She held it to her stomach, palm flat over her belly button. Mouse felt her hand tingling from where he touched like stars were sparking over her skin.

"Your name _does_ mean pride, lethallin." She looked up at him shyly. He smiled then, a lopsided grin that deepened the dimple on his chin. Solas reached out a hand and ruffled her short hair, the strands sticking up in all directions as he slid his fingers over her scalp.

"Your hair has grown so quickly." He pats the top of her head like one would a dog. Mouse felt herself pouting, eyes narrowing as he smiled blithely down at her. She jerked her head back and swatted him away.

"Stop! I'm not a mabari!" She whispers harshly, ineffectively attempting to appear outraged over her messed up hair.

Solas laughed, leaning forward to muss her hair further with both hands.

*

Her favorite sound is the breeze wriggling through the leaves. Thin green bodies quivering as the air kisses and strokes its way down their veins with the faintest of touches.

Her least favorite is claws raking across the edge of her ears. Tracing the shell, the lobe, with the sharp tip. No pressure, no pain, but the vaguest warning of what could be done.

He taps his claws on the floor, eyes wild and yellow, and smacks his lips wetly.

“Da'len,” he cries. “Da'len! _Da'len_. I've been waiting, so patient, for you.”

She wants to wake up now.

“You see more now, don't you? See what I've given you.” He holds out his arms in a welcoming gesture, tossing his head back to laugh at the sky. “Just for you. Just what I've promised.”

There are no more trees, no more leaves. Just blinding white teeth and the sound of nails dragging over her flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in other news, i've got a [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0SA7xhRijDkCHBxVt9Y3Wv) playlist of songs that have inspired me when writing this fic. they're not as closely tied as the songs i used for "honeyeater" but i listen to them to get me into the right ~mood~ for writing this. fyi, i consider "threads" by portishead to be mouse's "theme".
> 
> thank you for reading <3
> 
> translations  
> emma moludh - affectionate term. "my little mouse"/"my mouse-ette".


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _run little sister, run so fast, I see he’s gaining on you_  
>  take a breath and make it last  
> "darkhorse" emma ruth rundle
> 
> Dreams, demons, and a Hawke lands at Skyhold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter mentions blood several times and there are references to abuse

Running. Has she actually ever properly _run_ in her whole life? There's no room in the Gallows to run, only corners and walls that cast tall shadows over you. You turn to escape one wall and another pops up behind you. Grass trampled by bare feet and toes digging into soft moss. Low hanging branches swipe at her face, cheeks burning as thorny limbs lash out at her with sharp fingers.

What is she running from? She can't recall but her heart pounds in her chest. Run, run, run.

A hand reaches out and grabs at her shoulder, pulling her back as she feels the ground beneath her disappear. 

“Mouse, calm yourself. It's only me.”

Mouse scrambles as she lands on her bottom and her hands claw at the grass, fingers burying themselves into the cold dirt. She yelps a strangled cry.

“Prove it! Prove you're not a demon.” She is breathless as she stares up at the looming figure who has invaded her dream.

“Yesterday you gave Eoin a sweetroll. He managed to get icing on a book. Dorian was quite agitated when he grabbed a book on the Mortalitasi and discovered his hand covered in a strange sticky substance.” Solas smiles gently as he kneels before her, reaching out to wipe away the sweat that trickled down her brow. Mouse gulped down air as she relaxes under his touch.

“I was walking in a dream and sensed your distress. You were having a nightmare, lethallan.” Solas sits back on his heels and moves his hands to his lap, watching her with concern. “You are safe. There are no demons here now.”

Mouse looks around and dimly recognizes the forest around her. “This, this is the forest where we met.” The light fades and suddenly it is night. The stars turn on, one by one, and flicker like candlelight in the sky. The air stills and Solas tips his chin up to gaze at the stars.

“Do you know who or what was chasing you?” He asks quietly.

Mouse looks away, staring off deep into the forest. “Yes and no.”

Solas leans forward, his eyes dark and searching. “I cannot help you if you do not tell me.”

The trees shake, disturbed by a figure stalking through the tall grass. Mouse feels a familiar sense of foreboding tickle at the base of her neck. She touches his shoulder, pushing him back as she rises to stand.

“Not here. When we wake.”

Solas nods and moves to stand beside her. 

"I agree." He lifts his hand and places two fingers on her forehead. "I will clear your mind and you will not dream for the rest of the night, lethallan." 

With the press of the pads of his fingers against her clammy skin, Mouse slipped away into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

*

My blood is mine and always will be. I will use it as I see fit. I will sharpen it into a blade and use it as a weapon.

My blood is my own and always will be. I will use it and they cannot take it from me. They cannot take _this_ from me.

My blood belongs to me and always will. I will use it as you have taught me. They cannot take this weapon away from us.

*

Solas handed Mouse a wrapped and tied bundle as he sat on the bench beside her. She held it in her hands, fumbling with the string knot for a moment before untying it and spreading the fabric over her lap. Nestled in the bundle were two sweetrolls, shining in the sun with sticky glaze, still warm and smelling sickly sweet. Without a word, Solas plucked one and took a large bite. Mouse watched him eat silently, her eyes occasionally dropping to his lips as the sugary glaze dripped thickly onto his lips. Once he had finished, he darted his tongue out to lap up every last drop of sugar that was smeared over his generous mouth. Mouse swallowed thickly and held in the sigh that rumbled in her chest. She looked down to the sweetroll still in her lap and wrapped it back up.

“I'll, uh, eat mine later.”

Solas shrugged and licked his fingers clean. _He's torturing me and he knows it_ , Mouse thought glumly. She tied the string and placed her hands over the bundle in her lap.

“Are you ready to talk about your dream?”

“No. Not really.” Mouse watched people come and go in the courtyard. Chantry sisters walked with soft steps and ever softer voices, the Chant of Light spilling from their lips like it was perfectly normal to wrap your words in religious doctrine. Another group gathered under the stone veranda, clearly Orlesian by the way they dressed, and they were chattering excitedly about something Mouse couldn't quite make out.

Solas sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “The Inquisitor will return from Halamshiral tomorrow and we will depart for Adamant not long after. The situation with the Wardens is growing more distressing by the minute.”

Mouse hummed in response and Solas sighed again as he rubbed a hand over his bare head.

He lowered his voice, “News from the Palace says that Briala has reconciled with Empress Celene.”

“What does that mean for the – well,” Mouse hesitated for a moment. “You know.”

Solas curled his shoulders inward and laced his fingers together, flexing them against his thighs as he watched the courtyard with a careful eye.

“Her control over the network remains firm for the moment but I have formulated a way to wrestle it away from her. It will take some time but it will be mine again.”

“Will I be sent to Adamant as well?”

Solas turned his head to face her, a question forming on his lips. “Do you feel confident enough to fight?” He narrowed his eyes. “How is your vision?”

“It's fine,” she lied. 

Solas exhaled a soft, skeptical breath through his nose. Mouse straightened her back and sat tall, holding her chin up in slight defiance. The scarred skin of her neck stretched in an uncomfortable way that made her scream internally.

“I need to get out of Skyhold for a while,” she continued. “It's been a while since you sent me anywhere.”

“This is to be a battle, da'len, not a casual day trip.” Mouse opened her mouth to challenge him but Solas talked over her. “I won't have you endanger yourself because you are _bored_."

At this moment, Mouse hated Solas. Hated how he casually slipped back into calling her  _da'len_ whenever it suited him and his lectures.

“I am not a child to be protected, _hahren_. I can handle myself. I have traveled on my own.”

“We will talk about this later, da'len.” Solas stood swiftly and clasped both hands behind his back. “I have not forgotten that you avoided telling me of your nightmare. We will speak of that as well.” He leaned down and tapped one finger on the wrapped sweetroll in her lap. “Eat that before it gets cold. They taste best when still warm.”

Solas pivoted on his heel and stalked off back to the main hall. Mouse grit her teeth and dug her fingers into the bundle she still held. She clawed at the fabric, squishing the desert spitefully as she watched the infuriating elven man's back grow smaller as he disappeared into Skyhold's heavy walls.

*

 _What a foolish thing to do_ , she thought as she looked into the nothingness that she assumed was the sky. It pulsated green and white before settling into a blue so clear it made her wince.

Footsteps approached and stopped at her prone form. Shiny leather boots, so polished her reflection peered back at her as she rolled her head to face them. The feet tapped impatiently, then nudged her forehead back. Mouse looked at the figure looming over her. An elven man with long brown hair streaked with white, thread-bared clothes pulled tight over his thin frame, and his lanky arms clasped over his stomach. He smiled but it was wrong – his teeth were too sharp. Mouse snorted.

“Are you supposed to be my father? I don't remember what he looked like, you know.”

The demon rolled his eyes.

“Oh? Do pardon me, then. How's this?” First Enchanter Orsino stood before her and raised one eyebrow. He shook his head with a frown. “No? How about this?” He shifted, his form growing taller as he became the head librarian at the Gallows, Davyd. He watched her with his gentle brown eyes _(but it's not quite right no that's not Davyd at all)_ and he raised a hand to touch one of his pointed ears. He laughed softly and then ran his other hand through his black curls.

“You certainly have a type, my dear.” A sharp canine tooth pulled at his bottom lip as he continued to grin at her. He looked distinctly like a dog that had cornered a rabbit. Mouse felt her cheeks flush as she realized he had peeked into her head and knew her deepest, darkest desires. Not-Davyd held out a hand for her take and she found herself grabbing it despite herself. He pulled her to standing and dusted her off. When he was done, Not-Davyd stepped back and examined her from top to bottom.

“You crave the connection that was severed long before you were born. _Lathbora viran, da'len_. You desire direction. The push of a more _experienced_ hand. I can give that to you.”

“I'm not an idiot. I know better than to make a deal with a demon.” Mouse resisted the urge to laugh in his face. Real Davyd didn't know a lick of elvish, least of all enough to lecture her with it.

“Do you know better than to not cut too deeply when casting blood magic?” Not-Davyd's face turned red with anger as he descended on her, his hand reaching out for her neck. He wrapped his fingers around her neck and gripped, tightly, as he narrowed his eyes down at her. Mouse felt her eyes bug out of her skull as he pressed harder. As quickly as his rage came, it subsided and he softened his fingers against her skin, rubbing gentle circles over the tendons. “You're dying, da'len.”

“Then let me die, _hahren,_ ” she spat.

The demon flexed his fingers on her neck once more before removing them completely. He slid his hand to her cheek, cupping it as he invaded her personal space. They were so close now their chests nearly touched. “There is a spark in you. A...potential. It would be such a waste.” Not-Davyd stroked her cheek and lowered his voice, his breath tickling hot over her skin. “Let me in. Let me in and you will live to see that potential be fruitful. Let me in and you will find the life you have wanted for so long.”

“You don't know what I want.” Mouse felt her lungs burn as she held her breath. It hurt to breathe and felt like his fingers were still burrowing into her neck. The demon continued to touch her gently as if they were lovers having a small argument instead of a demon trying to seduce a mage. She wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry.

Not-Davyd wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. He lowered his lips to her ear: “A life free of fear. A purpose. A cause. Vengeance. Love.”

The hand at her waist tightened, his fingers splayed and pressing into her skin. Mouse stiffened and attempted to escape his embrace. He held her tighter and dug into her ribs.

“You will not possess me, demon.” She hissed into his shoulder and she found herself suddenly tempted to sink her teeth into the flesh of his neck.

With a laugh, the demon was far away and sitting on an overstuffed chair that appeared out of thin air. The nothing sky still above them brewed threateningly. Still too blue to be real. Mouse rubbed a hand over her sore neck. Not-Davyd played with his black curls idly, pulling them taut and then releasing them with a soft giggle.

“Who said anything about possession? _Tel garas solasan_. All I ask is that you let me put all that blood back in its rightful place.”

“And in return?”

He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. They seemed impossibly long now and grew longer by the second.

“In return, you will owe me a favor. A trifle in exchange for cleaning up your mess.” The demon held up one finger and smiled brightly. “You will see, da'len. You will see what lies behind the curtain that severed your people from their birthright. You will see and you will know.”

“Know? Know what? How am I supposed to accept -” Mouse stepped forward, shoulders hunched as confusion covered her face. The demon made a curious motion of tapping one finger on his wrist as if indicating some imaginary object. Mouse furrowed her brow and stopped her momentum. The skin on her neck grew hot, wrapping around her jaw and up her ears.

“Tick-tock, little Mouse. I am a very busy man and I have other places to be.”

“Ok! Ok.” It rushed out in one breath – acceptance. Acceptance of whatever he was offering and Mouse felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. The demon rose and, in the blink of an eye, stood in front of her again. The chair he was sitting in disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke. He took both her hands in his and held them between their bodies. Sharp dark fingernails curled into her knuckles.

“You accept?”

His dark eyes shone bright and green began to overtake the brown. In a moment, his eyes were a sickly shade of green. He intertwined his fingers with hers, spidery fingers grasping to hold her closer.

“I accept.” Mouse swallowed down the lump that grew in her throat. Not-Davyd smiled so wide, so genuine, that it was hard to ignore the way his teeth grew into daggers. It was hard to ignore the green that filtered over his skin and spilled from his lips.

“Oh, da'len. You don't know how _happy_ you've made me.”

*

Mouse sat up with a start, a line of drool cooling on her cheek and an open book lying in front of her. She had fallen asleep in the library, again, and found herself alone in a hidden alcove as moonlight poured in from a nearby window. With a sigh, she closed the book and rose to return it to its rightful shelf.

She stiffened as a trio of indistinct voices drifted from the other side of the library.

“I understand artistic liberties and all but did you really have to mention the size of my bosom so much? Why am I always _heaving_ in your books?” A feminine voice, sharp and tinged with dry humor.

“Listen, it was either that or your ass. And a heaving ass would be hard to explain.” A familiar voice. Varric.

Another voice chipped in: “What would you have done, Varric, if your dear protagonist wasn't particularly gifted in either?” _Ah,_ Mouse thought, _Dorian._ She peered around the bookcase at the sound of clinking glass, wooden legs pushed across the hard library floor, and bodies being lowered in soft chairs. The group had gathered their small party into Dorian's usual spot. Varric and an unknown dark-haired woman pulled up two chairs and sat across from the Tevinter mage.

“Lie, of course.”

“Well, either way, Anders was disappointed you didn't care to describe my strong thighs. Carver finds the whole thing distasteful and the Wardens give him such shit for it.” The feminine voice laughed. Varric chuckled in response, taking a sip from a wine glass filled to the brim with a dark viscous liquid. Dorian clicked his tongue and shook his head, a wry smile spreading over his face.

“Mouse, darling, if you're going to eavesdrop you could at least come and grab some wine while you're at it.”

Mouse slipped out from behind the bookshelf, wringing her hands in the fabric of her tunic. “How'd you know I was here?”

“You tap your toes on the floor when you're nervous.”

“And you chew your lips,” Varric added. Mouse frowned and opened her mouth to protest but Dorian cut her off.

“Wrings her hands just like that too.” He laughs. The woman beside them leaned over and slapped Varric on the shoulder.

“Leave the poor girl alone. Come over and join us, sweetie.” The woman smiled gently and got up to pull up another chair. Mouse scurried over, carefully keeping her hands apart so as not to wring them again. The woman sat back down in her chair and held out her hand for Mouse to take. “I'm Freya Hawke.”

Mouse grabbed the woman's hand and then froze as her words hit her. “You're...you're the Champion!”

Mouse knew all about the Champion of Kirkwall. The mages in the Gallows loved gossiping about her exploits and whispering about her rumored relationship with the apostate Anders. They were careful not to speak either name in front of the Templars but their words sometimes carried far and punishment was swift.

Hawke ran a hand over her short, dark hair and cast a baleful glare at Varric. “Do I live up to the tales?”

“Cassandra nearly gave her a _hug_ when they were introduced,” Dorian whispered with clear glee. “I swear, I thought she was going to ask you to autograph her copy of _The Tale of the Champion_.” Varric snorted into his wine glass as he held to his face, taking another sip while pointedly avoiding Hawke's stare. Mouse shifted on her feet nervously - she didn't know the Inquisitor and her retinue had returned from Halamshiral already. That meant they would be leaving for Adamant soon. Solas had yet to return to continue his argument on why she shouldn't go. _He probably has a whole numbered list by now_ , Mouse thought as she picked at a loose thread hanging off her scarf.

"Yeah, Hawke could have signed it in my blood right after Cassandra beat me to death." Varric shook his head and sighed. "Remind me never to anger a Navarran again."

Dorian handed Mouse a glass full of wine as she sat in the chair Hawke stuffed into the corner. Mouse wondered briefly where it came from but ignored it as she took a small, cautious sip.

“If you had told me this morning I'd be spending my evening with three _very_ different people from Kirkwall, I'd laugh in your face.” Dorian raised his glass and nodded with a grin. “To Kirkwall and its disastrous cuisine!”

The dwarf, the human woman, and the anxious elf all stared at one another. Mouse felt herself shrink into her seat. Hawke and Varric shouted over one another as they rushed to question her.

“You're from Kirkwall?”

“Fuzzy why didn't you tell me you're from Kirkwall?”

Mouse winced and grasped her wine glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Yes. It never came up and – _Fuzzy?!_ ”

“Your hair is growing back and it's all-” Varric wiggled his hands over his face. “Fuzzy.” Mouse touched her head and felt the still short strands that, yes, were fuzzy. She had tried to comb it into some semblance of a hairstyle with wispy brown bangs that framed her face but were still not long enough for her to hide behind.

Varric shifted in his seat as a spark of _something_ flitted across his face. “You're a mage.” Mouse sank down further into her seat, tilting the wineglass up to her lips to drain it. Bitter red slipped down her throat.

Dorian looked over at the dwarf with confusion and Hawke's eyes grew wide.

“You were in the Gallows,” the human woman murmured in a sotto voice. Dorian lowered his glass as regret filled his eyes.

“Mouse, I'm sorry, I didn't think-”

“It's okay.” Mouse ran a finger over the rim of her empty glass. “Yes, I was in the Gallows. I was there when they – Meredith – called for the Annulment.” She smiled down at the glass in her hands, eyes hardened as the light danced over the surface. “As you can see, they did not succeed in annulling me.”

Hawke leaned forward and placed a soft hand on Mouse's knee. “Mouse, I...I am sorry. Anders didn't...he didn't think Meredith would take it out on the Circle mages.”

The wine made her head feel light and as fuzzy as her hair. Her smile spread wider as her eyes grew watery. Mouse shook her head and lifted her glass in a mocking cheer. “I'm not mad at Anders. I _agree_ with what he did.”

Drunkenness had hit her faster than she'd thought and her tongue loosened as the words spilled out.

“My name, _shockingly_ , is not Mouse. I don't remember what my name is. Was. I was taken to the Gallows at a young age, young enough that I'm not even sure how old I was. They told me I was six and that I was to be called 'Mouse' because I was too afraid to speak. Too afraid to do anything other than hide behind bookshelves.” She pauses, chewing on her lip for a moment before barking a laugh that made Dorian flinch. “Might've been an elf ear joke, who knows. I never asked.”

Varric looked down at his glass, a frown wrinkling his features. Hawke sat frozen in her chair, her hands holding onto her drink loosely. The dark red wine eased ever closer to spilling over the edge.

“I don't remember my parents, just that we lived in an alienage and I could see the leaves of the vhenadahl from a hole in the wall.”

Her smile broke her face in two. Words came out in a rush. She had never spoken this much before in her life, least of all to virtual strangers. When you bottle everything up, for so long, it all has to come out sometime.

“I suppose I have some things to be thankful for – I was taught to read, write, and even mathematics which is a _lot_ more than the average city elf will ever learn in their lifetime. But I don't know who I am and I never will. My parents, in all likelihood, are dead and if they aren't, think I am dead.”

“I am lucky. I escaped my time in the Circle unmolested but not unscathed. I was beaten on numerous occasions for offenses that wouldn't garner a side-eye in a normal school. My right wrist aches when it's cold because one time I _'spoke out of turn'_ for protesting the treatment of the Tranquil and the Templars on-duty thought the best course of action would be for me to take a trip down the library staircase.”

Dorian gasped, a quick hushed thing that was barely audible. Varric cursed under his breath and Hawke sat her glass on a nearby table so roughly a little wine spilled over the rim. Mouse waved her hand dismissively and rotated her right wrist in an exaggerated spin.

“I only broke my wrist, thankfully, but they wouldn't let anyone heal me using magic under threat of similar punishment. I do believe I was 14 then.”

“Bastards. You were only a child.” Dorian covered his mouth with one hand and muttered.

“They. They back you into a corner. Templars. They corral you like an animal and they strike you with their maker-blessed abilities and are surprised when you lash out.” The glass between her fingers shrieked as she dug her nails into it. Mouse felt bitterness seep into her words. “They take from us what has always been there, burning in our lungs, and are surprised when we turn to the only weapon we have left. What they teach us - am I to be an abomination for being afraid? Being angry?” A creak, then it cracked and splintered. The glass pierced the flesh of her palms as Mouse tightened her hands into fists. Dorian stood, rushing over to pull her hands apart.

“Mouse!” Hawke gasped. Red dripped from her hands onto the floor. It spilled from her hands and eased its way into the grooves of the wood. Mouse ignored the fussing people around her as her voice lowered into a harsh hiss. Dorian dropped to his knees as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“They think they can beat it out of you. All that's good for is turning you to the demons that whisper in your ear.”

Dorian's hands enveloped hers as he sent a warm healing spell into her skin. The bleeding stopped and her skin turned pink as it knit itself back together. The glass worked its way out and fell to the floor with a soft tinkling. The pooled blood on her palms grew cold as Dorian began to wipe it away with his pristine white handkerchief.

“Maker's breath, Mouse -” Dorian exclaimed breathlessly. Mouse pulled her hands away and looked down at the blood smeared across her skin. A lump formed in her throat and she gulped down the bile that rose in her throat. She flexed her fingers, curling them inwards to touch the red. _Power_ , she thought. _This is power._

The others watched her silently with concern marked openly on their faces. Dorian folded his hands over hers again, pulling her hands down as he checked for any remaining cuts. 

“I agree with what Anders did because I know what happens when you are starving and fear is the only thing you are fed," Mouse whispered as she felt the blood pulse, familiar and warm, in her veins.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations (from the DA wiki)  
> Lathbora viran - "the path to a place of lost love," a longing for a thing one can never really know  
> Tel garas solasan - Come not to a prideful place


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trees, girl talk, and Dorian eats a cookie out of spite.

It started with a strange looking tree. In all other aspects, it was a perfectly fine tree. Tall. Leafy. All the words that popped in your head when you thought of trees – that was it. It was a tree just as much as the other trees that surrounded it.

Except, of course, for the fact that it was _too_ green in the way that food could be too salty or too sweet or too anything, really. It was more than it should be.

Mouse stared at it for far too long, narrowing her eyes as she examined it much more than she had ever examined a tree in her life. Perhaps being in the Gallows for so long made her forget the beauty of nature. Maybe trees were like this all over Ferelden and she was just an ignorant Marcher. When she left the boat that took her over the Waking Sea, her legs trembled on dry land so deeply she felt it in her bones. She wandered away from the docks and found herself, for the very first time in her life, to be free.

Freedom was frightening.

After finding a sympathetic merchant, she traded her Circle robes for the barest of supplies and plainer clothes. A cloak that smelled of elfroot and smoke. A bag with a hole at the bottom that refused to stay mended. She didn't have the remaining coin for a staff and had left Kirkwall without one – it was all well enough though. Mouse didn't want to mark herself as an apostate so blatantly. She traveled in no particular direction, picking up odd jobs in each village she came across. A baker's assistant here, a scribe there, and for one achingly awkward month she played housekeeper for a strange human man who spoke to her in grunts and who ended her term of employment with the ultimatum of _“marry me or get out”_. She got out.

Life continued like that for some time – how long, exactly, she did not keep track. Winding her way through Ferelden until the cities and villages no longer held her interest. Mouse found herself spending more time in the forests away from the humans and the city elves who stared at her with curious eyes. The Dalish were always an ever-present question mark. Sometimes they would welcome her in but only so much, allowing her to pitch her tent at the edge of their camps until they were tired of her shadow and shooed her away. Other times they would not even let her get close enough to see the aravels, warning her off with the threat of arrows aimed at her head.

That left the forests and the trees for company. Or, more specifically, the tree.

Reaching out a tentative hand, Mouse watched with pure confusion as her hand slipped into the trunk of the tree. She wiggled her fingers and her mind reeled at the conflicting sensations that quickly grew overwhelming. She knew, by way of experience and just plain common sense, that she should be feeling the rough texture of tree bark on her fingers. Instead, she felt nothing but the air as she scissored her fingers into nothing. It was a sickening sight – her arm cut off at mid-forearm and nothing but the tree where her hand should be. Slowly, afraid to anger whatever it was she had stumbled upon, Mouse pulled her hand back. When her fingers appeared from the tree trunk, she pulled her entire hand out and cradled it to her chest.

The tree shuddered, shaking from its thick trunk all the way up to its many leaves. With a sigh, the tree seemed to slowly fade away until it was gone completely.

Mouse continued to stare, unblinking, into the empty air where the tree once stood until the light faded and only night remained.

* *

“Oh, Mouse! Just the person I wanted to see.”

Her hand hovered over the stack of books someone had rudely abandoned on the floor in front of an empty alcove of bookshelves. Mouse sat with her feet beneath her bottom and her knees pressed to the library floor as the Inquisitor sauntered over with an open smile.

“I...what?” Mouse froze, then rolled back on her feet to spring to standing. She dusted her trousers off and tried to return the Inquisitor's smile. Her lips pulled back, creasing her cheeks, and she became acutely aware that her smile was more like a grimace. “Sorry, I mean. Why?”

Trevelyan tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear ( _Perfectly round_ , Mouse noted) and let her eyes wander over the titles littering the bookshelves. With a sigh, she flicked her gaze back onto to Mouse with firm resolve.

“I wanted to apologize for before. I spoke with Solas and I realized that I made things awkward.”

“No, Inquisitor, messere. You didn't.” Mouse wrung her hands into the hem of her tunic. She had hoped the Inquisitor had forgotten all about their strange meeting. Apparently, she had not.

The human woman held up a hand, palm and fingers splayed. “No need to be polite, I know I did.” Trevelyan maintained such strong eye contact that Mouse felt heat rise in the back of her neck. The human had such bright blue eyes that she had to blink and look away for fear of being burned. The mark on her hand oozed a verdant aura that crept up her forearm. Mouse kept her gaze firmly on the floor, trying in vain to ignore the way the human woman's whole body seemed to vibrate.

“I'm not used to being around so many different kinds of people. I had never even spoken to a dwarf until I met Varric. I guess you know how that feels? Since we were both in Circles and all.” Trevelyan's voice dropped off at the end, softening as she ran a hand through her hair with uncharacteristic nervousness. Mouse nodded in agreement.

“It's a little overwhelming sometimes.”

“See! Exactly! The others don't get it, I think. In the Circle, you saw the _same_ people every day for years on end. Meeting so many new people gives me a headache, to be honest.” Trevelyan leaned in close and looked ready to hug the small elf but restrained herself, choosing instead to run a finger down the spine of a nearby book. It was her marked hand and a soft green light burned under her curled fingers. She hummed softly under her breath as she trailed a nail over the foiled letters.

“Anyway, I wanted to apologize because I know you and Solas have a bit of a thing and I didn't want -”

Mouse stepped forward, holding both hands out like she was warming them at a fire. She trembled from head to toe. “Wait, no, Inquisitor, please. There's nothing between us.”

“Please, call me Evelyn. Are you sure? Varric said -” Evelyn smiled slyly and flicked her nail against the shelf in a teasing rhythm. The human woman arched an eyebrow as she stared down the elf woman who suddenly wished she could disappear.

“Varric is prone to exaggeration,” Mouse deadpanned. Evelyn laughed, quick and tinkling, and tilted her head as if thinking deeply.

“Hmm. Maybe so but I always see you two together. He's teaching you his style of magic, isn't he?” She leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially. Mouse pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and chewed. Evelyn's eyes shone with girlish glee over the simple joy of gossiping. The mark flared for a moment then settled into pulsing languidly.

Mouse turned and busied herself with rubbing the hem of her tunic sleeve over the dusty bookshelf. She carved wide trails over the wood with her anxious cleaning. “He is and we are friends but it's not like that at all. I swear.”

“Do you want it to be? He's handsome in an unusual way.” Evelyn sighed and rested her back against the bookshelves. She observed the crows flying in and out of the rookery with detached interest.

Mouse opened her mouth briefly before shutting it as a group of chattering mages walked by. She pulled the now dirty hem of her sleeve back to its rightful place and tried to appear nonchalant.

“Oh, well...”

Evelyn's head snapped up and she grasped Mouse's now idle hand in her own. Mouse flinched and stumbled, pulling them both back further into the alcove until her back hit the wall. When she noticed that it was the Inquisitor's marked hand that touched her, all of the breath in her lungs left in an audible choking sound.

“Ah! I knew it.” Evelyn grinned mischievously. “I was a bit taken with him at first before I realized that I had no chance. He's friendly, sort of, but doesn't like humans in that way.”

Mouse's eyes grew wide at both how fast the Inquisitor spoke and at her sudden confession. The idea of Solas and the very human Inquisitor was...interesting, to say the least.

“Oh? I didn't know that. I guess it makes sense.” Mouse's voice came out in a wane squeak. She bit back the urge to grimace at how pathetic she sounded.

Evelyn released her grip on Mouse's hand and widened the space between them. Mouse took a deep breath and tried to calm her wildly beating heart.

“It all worked out though. I've been talking with Blackwall and he's just...amazing.” The human woman sighed as a dreamy look softened her previous maniacal grin. Mouse gulped and tried to place where she had heard the name Blackwall before.

 _'Oh. OH.'_ Her eyes grew wide and bulged slightly out of her head.

“Blackwall? _Warden Blackwall?!_ ” Mouse squeaked again. An image of the burly bearded man popped up in her head. He was nearly two heads taller than her and probably four times as wide. The Inquisitor wasn't much taller or heavier than her and Mouse really, really tried not to imagine how big his hands would be compared to hers. Heat burned at her cheeks at the thought.

“Yes! He's so strong and kind. I even like his beard. It kind of tickles.” Evelyn wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

More unwelcome imagery. Mouse blushed a deep red as Evelyn seemed to slip into a lovely memory.

“It...tickles? Wait, don't answer that. I'm happy for you, Inqu- Evelyn.” She tried to laugh but it came out as a thin, quivering sound. If the Inquisitor noticed her discomfort, she didn't show it as the human woman continued to swoon.

“Thank you. The others don't know yet but it's not like we're hiding it.” The Inquisitor scratched at the back of her neck with eyes downcast. She flexed her marked hand, knitting her brows and frowning. “I'm enjoying having a private life.”

Mouse looked at Evelyn with pity. She would never understand how it would feel to be suddenly thrust into such a public position. Evelyn handled it so effortlessly that it was easy to forget how young she was.

“I understand. You can't be the Inquisitor all of the time.” Mouse awkwardly pat the other woman on the shoulder in a weak attempt to seem reassuring. Evelyn seemed to perk back up instantly, her sudden dark mood pushed aside.

“Exactly! See, you get it. Mouse...I. Well, I have come to gather a wonderful group of comrades and advisors. I couldn't ask for a better sort of people to surround myself with but they all see me as the Inquisitor first and foremost. If it wouldn't be too much, do you mind if we talked like this sometimes? Like normal women our age?”

Mouse thought a moment before speaking. The fact that she and the Inquisitor were not far apart in age had completely escaped her. Evelyn stood before her, blue eyes barely concealing her desperate need for her to say _yes_ , and Mouse found that she could not turn the woman down.

“I'd like that, Evelyn. I really would.”

“Really? Thank you, Mouse. I should be going now but....thank you.” Evelyn released a breath and smiled, her shoulder sloping down as if she had removed a large weight. Mouse returned her smile, albeit a weaker one. As much as it did her heart good to see the Inquisitor happy, she couldn't help but feel disgust flutter in her stomach when Evelyn hugged her and touched her again when her marked hand. It thrummed, deep magic quaking beneath thin mortal skin, and Mouse ignored her rising nausea.

*

“I'm finished with that book on Rivaini seers, Solas. Here.”

“Hmm. Thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian continued to stand at the edge of his desk, all the while looking down on the sitting elf with a confusing expectancy. Solas sat back in his chair and laid his hands in his lap.

“Yes?”

“You never told me that Mouse was interred at the Gallows.” The magister scoffed and folding his fingers to his palm, examining his nails for any dirt.

Solas prepared himself as he had the distinct sense that Dorian was not going to just give him the book and leave. He leaned back in his chair and attempted to make himself comfortable for what was sure to be a long, vexing conversation.

“It's not my place to spread her personal history around.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then pausing a moment to think, turned and dragged a nearby chair to Solas' desk. Solas felt a vein twinge on his temple and knew a headache was sure to follow.

“Yes, well. It would've been nice to know before I made a complete ass out of myself.” Dorian slapped a hand on the desk before sitting back and crossing his legs. _'Oh, good.'_ Solas thought as his clenched his jaw, _'He's settling in.'_

Outwardly, he maintained his composure as he watched his unwelcome guest fiddle around with the various objects that littered his desk.

“That seems to happen with startling frequency.”

“Ah, ha. Clever boy. Well, anyway, I ran my mouth – yes, I know, that also happens with startling frequency – and poor Mouse spilled her whole, well partial really, tragic backstory. Did you know that girl is a complete lightweight? Not surprising, a strong breeze could topple her, but one glass of wine and she was just -” Dorian made the motion of juggling an imaginary object spilling from his hands in a comically exaggerated way. Solas sighed and the magister shrugged his shoulders. With a sigh, he sat back and rubbed a fingertip across his mustache. “Dreadful. All of it – the treatment the Southern mages have suffered. The abuses at the hands of the Templars. Treating them all like -”

“Like slaves?”

“Mmh.” Dorian looked away, conceding the point with the wave of a hand. Solas let the sore subject drop, not in any mood to fall into another circular argument.

“She's stronger than she looks,” Dorian noted. Solas shifted in his seat, unsure of where this conversation was leading.

“That she is.” Solas waved a hand to shoo Dorian away from the shard that sat on top of a pile of books. Dorian snorted and, clearly offended at being clucked at like a child, swiped a biscuit from the plate that laid hidden under a stack of vellum. Chewing, he choked for a moment over the stale confection, then swallowed with a look of childish pride. Solas rolled his eyes and hid a laugh as he recalled that the biscuit had been there for several days.

Dorian, licking his teeth to clean off any remaining cookie crumbs, uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. “I overheard the two of you the other day.”

Solas stiffened but kept his face studiously placid. He arched an eyebrow, indicating for the other man to continue.

“I think you should let her go to Adamant.”

Solas opened his mouth to argue but Dorian held up a hand to stop him.

“She's the same age as the Inquisitor and received nearly the same training, not including the years she spent exploring after leaving the Gallows and the training you've been giving her.”

“Did Mouse send you to convince me to change my mind?” Solas laid his hands flat on the desktop, inhaling a slow breath through his nose.

“Really, she doesn't need your permission at all,” Dorian muttered to himself as he deliberately ignored Solas' question. “You're not her father.” Dorian emphasized the word _father_ , sending Solas a pointed look.

“I know that.”

“I _know_ you _know_ that.”

Solas furrowed his brow, a roiling mixture of anger and disgust growing in his stomach. He chose his next words carefully and kept his tone even.

“Why did you really come down here, Pavus?”

Dorian reached out and thumbed through the book he brought with him. An air of casualty, affected with near-perfect grace, followed each premeditated action. He closed the cover of the book firmly, flattening his palm over the leather-bound pages. He maintained eye-contact as he pushed the book away. 

“She's not a child and the sooner you realize that, I think, the better. If you do not return her feelings, fine, that's understandable. But-” Dorian rose from his chair and sent the wooden legs screeching along the stone floor. “Do not lead that girl on, holding out your affections and respect like a carrot before a horse.” His eyes are tight and locked on Solas' own, a wave of simmering anger hiding just behind his dark lashes.

Solas sat silent, his gaze locked in a stalemate with Dorian's. He reached out and straightened the book so it laid perpendicular with the rest of the objects on his desk. He picked up the now empty plate from its hiding place and set it aside for removal later.

“Are you her guardian, Pavus? Is there anything else I should know?”

Dorian swiped a hand down his leather-covered thighs, whatever anger that he had just exposed now carefully tucked away among his many belts.

“I know that she's an adult and that she can care for herself. Do you?” Dorian, polite as ever, dragged the chair back to its original place and made his exit, craning his neck to add one last remark. “That biscuit was atrocious.”

“That biscuit was _five_ days old.”

Dorian grimaced and muttered something surely offensive about Southerners as he stomped up the stairway to the library. Solas didn't quite hear and, truly, didn't care.

*

  
“ _Emma_ is possessive, right?” Mouse wiped at the sweat that trickled down her brow. Staff in hand, she fired another stonefist across the training field at a skewered straw-filled dummy. Its head lolled to its shoulder and it stared out blankly. Mouse smiled and looked to Solas for approval. He nodded, pleased at her progress.

“Yes, it is.” He watched from the corner of his eye as she thumbed her staff, rolling her palms over the worn wood as she mouthed the word silently.

“Okay.” She squared her shoulders, waiting for mana to replete as she searched her growing vocabulary for the next word she wanted translated. “So 'my' _moludh_.”

She cast a fireball and it swirled, flying far over the wooden post holding the dummy and landing with an explosion against the outer wall of Skyhold. Pebbles skittered down the already dilapidated wall and a brand new scorch mark that now adorned the abused stones. Mouse cringed and looked up at Solas for guidance.

“It doesn't translate directly but it is like saying 'my little mouse'.” Solas moved behind her and pressed his hands to the outside of her hips, adjusting her stance as he skimmed his fingers down her flank.

Mouse's eyes grew wide as she coughed and attempted to hide the way her cheeks burned. She rubbed a hand on her chin, running her fingers over the scar that trailed along her jawline. Solas, stepping away to confirm her feet were now in the correct position, couldn't help but watch the way her nails grazed over the pink mottled skin. A familiar feeling clawed at the back of his throat.

“Mol is mouse,” he added quietly.

“Oh.” Her reply hung in the air heavily. Solas looked away thoughtfully to the archers practicing on the other side of the field and hummed quietly underneath his breath. Mouse followed his gaze and observed their regal forms with no small amount of jealousy. The archers possessed a grace she would never even have a modicum of. They stood in a line, their spines rigid, and drew back the string of their bows at the shout of their prowling trainer.

Solas continued, “Mol'len would translate easier, I believe. Little mouse.”

A shudder ran down her spine. The archers stood frozen as they waited for their cue to release the tension that built in their fingers.

“Say that again.”

A shout, incoherent but clear in intent, rang out and a flurry of arrow cut through the air one after another. Mouse flinched as they hit their targets, wood singing out as sharp arrowheads pierced its skin.

“Little mouse?” She shook her head. “Ah. Mol'len?”

Solas looked to her, a question on his lips but he hesitated to ask. Mouse dug a nail into a crevice on her scarred earlobe. It hurt but she swallowed down the pain.

“Nothing. It just sounded familiar.” She chews on the word but doesn't recognize the taste.

He glows in the dimming light, the sky turning pink and orange as the sun sets. Blue shadows edged in gold, then the green that makes her sick eases around the wrinkles by his eyes, and in the end it doesn't matter because she has to look away because it hurts to look at him directly.

It's a small, negligent thing. The press of his lips to her knuckles. Chaste. Dry. Nothing to write breathless diary entries about. But it sends her mind reeling and she fills in the blanks with her overactive imagination. Mouse draws a map in her mind – wet ink scratching across fresh vellum – and plans where she wants those lips with the ruthless precision of a general. Hatch marks on a mountain top (my wrist my shoulder) and blotting thick drops to indicate water (my neck my jaw). She carves out Thedas on her skin and she wants him to travel the borders with his mouth and his fingertips and everything else she dreams about.

She wants all this and more but finds her lips curling to a placid smile. Pathetic and gentle as always. Solas squeezed her fingers and released her to return her smile with something equally banal. Mouse bit down on the tip of her tongue with her sharp front teeth. She ground her teeth in a sawing motion, eeking a little blood out of the thick muscle, and swallowed down the taste of copper and bile that filled her mouth.

“I have been thinking,” Solas said in a slow, cautious manner. Mouse turned back to the straw dummy, its head still hanging on by a thread from her previous assault. She took a deep breath and prepared another spell. “Perhaps you are ready to use your magic in battle.”

Mouse tried to compose herself but lost out as a grin spread across her face. 

“This is war, Mouse. Not a game. At any moment you feel overwhelmed, you turn back. Understood?” His voice is taut and dripping with a sharply worded warning.

Mouse nodded and, a toothy smile still on her face, released another fireball with a nimble arc of her staff. The air crackled as the flaming orb shot from the end of her staff and, hitting its target, ignited the straw-dummy into a burning effigy. Mouse, confidence soaring, beamed as she turned to regard the man beside her. When she sees him, she falters and her joy deflates. His face is grim, night spreading dark shadows down the peaks of his high cheekbones. Solas watched the smoke rise into the darkened sky, muttering under his breath something almost sounded like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. i don't even know. one of those weird transitional chapters that are kind of awful to write, ha ha. off to adamant next chapter and uhhhh maybe the fade? 
> 
> i finally decided that this would be inquisitor/blackwall because i'm a messy bitch who loves DRAMA


End file.
